i  ^ 


An  ?Et0f}tontlj  flkntnrij  Sizam 

m  5kn  (Eottttite,  uritlf 

an  Afterptm 


Srattrlj 


1  Sumite  tnateriam  vestris,  qni  scribitis,  ezquam 
Viribus,  et  -uersate  diu,  quid  ferre  recusetit, 
Quid  ijaleant  umeri." 


in  Qloto 


bg 


Copyright,  1907,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1907. 


Add   to  Lib. 
GIFT 


c 


an 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

3Jamr0  &.  Sratulf 

KILLED  AT  ANNAPOLIS,  NOVEMBER  5,  1905 

THIS    VOLUME,   SINCE   IT    TREATS    OF   GALLANTRY, 

IS  DEDICATED,  AS  BOTH  IN  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

AN  EXPONENT  OF  THE  WORD'S  TRUE 

AND  HIGHEST  MEANING 


"A  brutish  man  knoweth  not,  neither  doth  a  fool 
understand  this.  .  .  .  Shall  the  throne  of  iniquity 
have  fellowship  with  Thee,  which  frameth  mischief 
by  a  law  f" 


829 


In,  at  times,  an  altered  form,  and  without  exception 
drastically  abridged,  some  portions  of  this  book  have  made 
an  earlier  appearance,  more  thanks  to  the  hospitality  of 
divers  magazines.  Thus  in  AINSLEE'S  MAGAZINE  have  been 
aforetime  printed  the  episodes  of  "  Simon's  Hour,'1  of 
"  The  Casual  Honeymoon,"  and  of  "April's  Message" ;  in 
APPLETON'S  MAGAZINE  the  episodes  of  "Actors  All"  and 
of  "  The  Scapegoats" ;  in  THE  SMART  SET  the  episodes  of 
"Love  at  Martinmas"  of  "Heart  of  Gold,"  and  of  "The 
Ducal  Audience" :  as  HARPER'S  MAGAZINE  first  rendered 
accessible  the  episode  of  "In  the  Second  April,"  and  COL 
LIER'S  WEEKLY  that  of  "  The  Rhyme  to  Porringer" 

For  the  courtesy  which  makes  possible  another  and  more 
ample  presentation  of  these  several  episodes  decorum  now 
demands  acknowledgment;  and  this  their  author  hereby  ten 
ders,  both  in  gratitude  and  in  salutary  consciousness  that 
his  readers  are  enfranchised  as  concerns  a  rather  larger  area 
of  emotion. 

June  13,  1907. 


(Enntrttls 


THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY ! 

THE  PROLOGUE 7 

SIMON'S  HOUR Iz 

LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS 45 

THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON 67 

THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER 93 

ACTORS  ALL n-5 

APRIL'S  MESSAGE I39 

IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL 169 

HEART  OF  GOLD 239 

THE  SCAPEGOATS     . 267 

THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE 293 

LOVE'S  ALUMNI 321 

THE  EPILOGUE 33  x 


JUitBtrattottB 


THE    DEATH    OF    CAZAIO Frontispiece 

"WHO  IS  THE  LUCKY  MISS,  MY  LITTLE  VILLAIN?"  .  .  .  Facing  p.  174 
THE  DUEL  BETWEEN  JOHN  BULMER  AND  CAZAIO  ...  "  IQO 
"THE  BASTILE  IS  NOT  A  VERY  HEALTHY  PLACE "  "  2l8 


(Sallanirg 


.   GRUNDY 

[ADAM,  —  It  is  surely  fitting  that  a  book 
which  harks  back  to  the  manners  of  the 
second  George  should  have  both  its  dedi 
cation  and  its  patron.  And  these  com 
edies  claim  naturally  your  protection, 
____  _  ^  since  it  likewise  appears  a  custom  of  the 
timelKat  the  poet  dedicate  his  book  to  his  most  influen 
tial  acquaintance  and  the  one  least  likely  to  value  it. 

And,  indeed,  it  is  as  proper  that  the  plaudits  of  great 
persons  be  reserved  for  great  performances  as  it  is  un 
deniable  these 

tiny  pictures  of  that  tiny  time 
Aim  little  at  the  lofty  and  sublime. 

Yet  cognoscenti  still  esteem  it  an  error  in  the  accom 
plished  Shakespeare  that  he  introduced  a  game  of  billiards 
into  his  portrayal  of  Queen  Cleopatra's  court;  and  the 
impropriety  had  been  equal  had  I  linked  the  extreme  of 
any  passion  with  an  age  and  circle  wherein  abandonment 
to  passion  had  been  adjudged  bucolic.  Nay,  Madam,  the 

3 


(gallantry 

Eumenides  were  very  terrifying  at  Delphi,  no  doubt,  but 
send  them  howling  about  the  Pantiles,  deck  them  with 
paint,  patch,  and  panniers,  and  they  are  only  figures  of 
fun;  nor  may,  in  reason,  the  high  woes  of  a  second  Lear, 
or  of  a  new  Prometheus,  be  adequately  lighted  by  the 
flambeau??  bt;  Louis  Quinze. 

Conceive,  then,  the  overture  begun,  and  fear  not,  if  the 
action  of  the  play  demand  a  lion,  but  that  he  shall  be  a 
beast  of  Peter  Quince's  picking.  The  ladies  shall  not  be 
frighted,  for  our  chief  comedians  will  enact  modish  people 
of  a  time  when  gallantry  prevailed. 

Gallantry!  I  catalogue  it  with  those  arts,  Madam,  that 
are  to-day  practised  in  Kennaquhair,  and  nowhere  else. 
For  most  of  us  can  be  civil  nowadays,  at  a  pinch,  but 
scarcely  gallant. 

The  secret  of  gallantry,  I  take  it,  was  to  accept  the 
pleasures  of  life  leisurely  and  its  inconveniences  with  a 
shrug.  As  requisites,  a  gallant  person  will,  of  course, 
be  ' '  amorous,  but  not  too  constant,  have  a  pleasant  voice, 
and  possess  a  talent  for  love-letters."  He  will  always 
bear  in  mind  that  in  love-affairs  success  is  less  the  Ultima 
Thule  of  desire  than  its  coup  de  grace,  and  he  will  be  care 
ful  never  to  admit  the  fact,  especially  to  himself.  He 
will  value  ceremony  but  rather  for  its  comeliness  than  for 
its  utility,  as  one  esteeming  the  lily,  say,  to  be  more 
applaudable  than  the  bulb.  He  will  prink;  and  he  will 
be  at  his  best  after  sunset.  He  will  dare  to  acknowledge 
the  shapeliness  of  a  thief's  leg,  to  contend  that  the  com 
mission  of  murder  does  not  necessarily  impair  the  agree- 
ableness  of  a  man's  conversation,  and  to  insist  that  at 
bottom  God  is  kindlier  than  the  genteel  would  regard 
as  rational.  He  will,  in  fine,  sin  on  sufficient  provocation, 
and  repent  within  the  moment,  and  sincerely,  and  be  not 
unconscionably  surprised  when  he  repeats  the  progres- 


Epistle 

sion;  and  he  will  consider  the  world  with  a  smile  of 
toleration,  and  his  own  doings  with  a  smile  of  genuine 
amusement,  and  Heaven  with  a  smile  that  is  not  dis 
trustful. 

This  particular  attitude  toward  life  may  have  its  mer 
its,  but  it  is  hardly  conducive  to  a  meticulous  morality; 
and  therefore,  in  advance,  I  warn  you  that  my  Dramatis 
Persona?  will  in  their  display  of  the  cardinal  virtues  evince 
a  certain  parsimony.  Theirs  were,  in  effect,  not  virtuous 
days.  And  the  great  man  who  knew  them  au  fond,  and 
loved  them,  and  wrote  of  them  as  no  other  man  may  ever 
hope  to  do,  has  said  of  them,  and  with  perfect  truth : 

"  Fiddles  sing  all  through  them ;  wax-lights,  fine  dresses, 
fine  jokes,  fine  plate,  fine  equipages,  glitter  and  sparkle: 
never  was  there  such  a  brilliant,  jigging,  smirking  Vanity 
Fair.  But  wandering  through  that  city  of  the  dead,  that 
dreadfully  selfish  time,  through  those  godless  intrigues 
and  feasts,  through  those  crowds,  pushing,  and  eager, 
and  struggling — rouged,  and  lying,  and  fawning — I  have 
wanted  some  one  to  be  friends  with.  I  have  said,  Show 
me  some  good  person  about  that  Court;  find  me,  among  those 
selfish  courtiers,  those  dissolute  gay  people,  some  one  being 
that  I  can  love  and  regard."  And  Thackeray  confesses  that 
for  all  his  research  this  being  was  scarcely  visible. 

Where  a  giant  fails  one  may  in  reason  hesitate  to  essay. 
I  present,  then,  people  who,  as  people  normally  do,  ac 
cepted  their  times  and  made  the  best  of  them,  since  the 
most  estimable  needs  conform  a  little  to  the  custom  of 
his  day,  whether  it  be  Caractacus  painting  himself  sky- 
blue  or  Galileo  on  his  knees  at  Santa  Maria.  And  ac 
cordingly,  many  of  my  comedians  will  lie  when  it  seems 
advisable,  and  will  not  haggle  over  a  misdemeanor  when 
there  is  anything  to  be  gained  by  it;  and  at  times  their 
virtues  will  get  them  what  they  want,  and  at  times  their 

5 


(BaUanirg 

vices,  and  at  other  times  they  will  be  neither  punished 
nor  rewarded  as,  of  course,  is  never  the  case  nowadays: 
for  in  fine,  Madam,  they  will  be  just  human  beings 
stumbling  through  illogical  lives  with  precisely  that  lack 
of  common-sense  which  so  pre-eminently  distinguishes  all 
of  our  neighbors  from  ourselves. 

A  word  more:  the  progress  of  an  author  who  alternates, 
in  turn,  between  fact  and  his  private  fancies  (like  unequal 
crutches)  cannot  in  reason  be  undisfigured  by  false  steps. 
Therefore  it  is  judicious  to  confess,  Madam,  that  more 
than  once  I  have  pieced  the  opulence  of  my  subject  with 
the  poverty  of  my  inventions.  Indisputably,  to  thrust 
words  into  a  dead  man's  mouth  is  in  the  ultimate  as  un 
pardonable  as  the  axiomatic  offence  of  stealing  the  pennies 
from  his  eyes;  yet  nowadays  the  misdemeanor  is  very 
largely  condoned:  and  moreover,  if  I  have  sometimes 
erred  in  guessing  at  what  Ormskirk  or  de  Puysange  or 
Louis  de  Soyecourt  really  said  at  certain  moments  of  their 
lives,  the  misstep  was  due,  Madam,  less  to  malevolence 
than  inability  to  replevin  their  superior  utterance;  and 
the  accomplished  shade  of  Garendon,  at  least,  I  have  not 
travestied,  unless  it  were  through  some  too  prudent  item 
of  excision. 

Remains  but  to  subscribe  myself — in  the  approved 
formula  of  dedicators — as, 

MADAM, 

Your  ladyship's  most  humble  and  most  obedient 
servant, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


SPOKEN  BY  LADY  ALLONBY,  WHO  ENTERS 
IN  A  FLURRY 

The  author  bade  me  come —     Lud,  I  protest!— 
He  bade  me  come — and  I  forget  the  rest. 
But  'tis  no  matter;  he's  an  arrant  fool 
That  ever  bade  a  woman  speak  by  rule. 

Besides,  his  Prologue  was,  at  best,  dull  stuff, 
And  of  dull  writing  we  have,  sure,  enough. 
A  book  will  do  when  you've  a  vacant  minute, 
But,  la!  who  cares  what  is,  and  isn't,  in  it? 

And  since  I'm  but  the  Prologue  of  a  book, 
What  I've  omitted  all  will  overlook, 
And  owe  me  for  it,  too,  some  gratitude, 
Seeing  in  reason  it  cannot  be  good 
Whose  author  has  as  much  but  now  confessed, 
For,  Who  'd  excel  when  few  can  make  a  test 
Betwixt  indifferent  writing  and  the  best  ? 
He  said  but  now. 

And  I: — La,  why  excel, 
When  mediocrity  does  quite  as  well  ? 
'Tis  women  buy  the  books, — and  read  'em,  say, 
What  time  a  person  nods,  en  negligee, 
And  in  default  of  gossip,  cards,  or  dance, 
Resolves  ?  incite  a  nap  with  some  romance. 
9 


The  fool  replied  in  verse, — I  think  he  said 
'Twas  verses  the  ingenious  Dry  den  made, 
And  trust  'twill  save  me  from  entire  disgrace 
To  cite  'em  in  his  foolish  Prologue's  place. 

Yet,  scattered  here  and  there,  I  some  behold, 

Who  can  discern  the  tinsel  from  the  gold: 

To  these  he  writes;  and  if  by  them  allowed, 

'Tis  their  prerogative  to  rule  the  crowd, 

For  he  more  fears,  like  a  presuming  man, 

Their  votes  who  cannot  judge,  than  theirs  who  can. 


As  Played  at  Storn&way  Crag,  ZMarch  25,  1750 

"  You1  re  a  woman — one  to  whom  Heaven  gave  beauty, 
when  it  grafted  roses  on  a  briar.  You  are  the  reflection  of 
Heaven  in  a  pond,  and  he  that  leaps  at  you  is  sunk.  You 
were  all  white,  a  sheet  of  lovely  spotless  paper,  when  you 
first  were  born;  but  you  are  to  be  scrawled  and  blotted  by 
every  goose's  quill" 


LORD  ROKESLE,  a  loose-living,  impoverished  nobleman,  and 

loves  Lady  Allonby. 
SIMON  ORTS,  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna,  a  debauched  fellow,  and 

Rokesle's  creature. 
PUNSHON,  servant  to  Rokesle. 

LADY  ALLONBY,  a  pleasure-loving,  luxurious  woman,  a  widow, 
and  very  rich. 

SCENE 
The  Mancini  Chamber  at  Stornoway  Crag,  on  Usk. 


PROEM:— The  Age  and  a.  Product  of  It 

IE  begin  at  a  time  when  George  the  Second 
was  placidly  permitting  England  to  govern 
herself,  and  the  Jacobites  had  not  yet 
ceased  to  hope  for  another  Stuart  Resto 
ration,  and  Mr.  Washington  was  a  prom 
ising  young  surveyor  in  the  most  loyal 
of  colonies;  when  abroad  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour 
ruled  France  and  all  its  appurtenances,  and  the  King 
of  Prussia  and  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa  had,  between 
them,  set  entire  Europe  by  the  ears;  when  at  home  the 
ladies,  if  rumor  may  be  credited,  were  less  unapproach 
able  than  their  hoop-petticoats  caused  them  to  appear,1 
and  gentlemen  wore  swords,  and  the  more  daring  ones 
their  own  hair,  and  politeness  was  obligatory,  and  moral 
ity  a  matter  of  taste,  and  people  went  about  the  day's 
work  with  an  ample  leisure  and  very  few  scruples :  in  fine, 
we  begin  toward  the  end  of  March,  in  the  year  1750, 
when  Lady  Allonby  and  her  brother,  Mr.  Henry  Heleigh, 
of  Trevor's  Folly,  were  the  guests  of  Lord  Rokesle,  at 
Stornoway  Crag,  on  Usk. 

As  any  person  of  ton  could  have  informed  you,  Anas- 
tasia  Allonby  was  cousin  to  the  Earl  of  Brudenel,  and  the 
widow  (by  his  second  marriage)  of  Lord  Stephen  Allonby, 

1  "  Oft  have  we  known  that  sevenfold  fence  to  fail, 

Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  armed  with  ribs  of  whale." 

13 


the  Marquis  of  Falmouth's  younger  brother;  and  it  was 
conceded  by  the  most  sedate  that  Lord  Stephen's  widow, 
in  consideration  of  her  liberal  jointure,  possessed  a  quite 
inordinate  comeliness. 

She  was  tall  for  a  woman.  Her  hair,  to-night  unpow- 
dered,  had  the  color  of  amber  and  something,  too,  of  its 
glow ;  her  eyes,  though  not  profound,  were  large  and  in  hue 
varied,  as  the  light  fell  or  her  emotions  shifted,  through 
a  wide  gamut  of  blue  shades.  But  it  was  her  mouth  you 
remembered:  the  fulness  and  brevity  of  it,  the  deep  in 
dentation  of  its  upper  lip,  the  curves  of  it  and  its  vivid 
crimson — these  roused  in  you  a  wildish  speculation  as  to 
its  softness  when  she  and  Fate  were  beyond  ordinary 
lenient.  Pink  was  the  color  most  favorable  to  her  com 
plexion,  and  this  she  wore  to-night;  the  gown  was  volu 
minous,  with  a  profusion  of  lace  about  it,  and  afforded,  as 
was  the  mode,  ample  opportunity  to  appraise  her  neck 
and  shoulders.  Lady  Allonby  had  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  either,  and  the  age  was  not  prudish. 

To  such  a  person,  enters  Simon  Orts,  chaplain  in  or 
dinary  to  Lord  Rokesle,  and  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna,  one  of 
Lord  Rokesle 's  livings. 


"Now  of  a  truth,'*  said  Simon  Orts,  "that  is  curious — 
undeniably  that  is  curious." 

He  stayed  at  the  door  for  a  moment  staring  back  into 
the  ill-lit  corridor.  Presently  he  shut  the  door  to,  and 
came  forward  toward  the  fireplace. 

Lady  Allonby,  half-hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  big  chair 
beside  the  chimney-piece,  a  book  in  her  lap,  looked  up 
inquiringly.  Lady  Allonby  did  not  rise,  for  she  had  no 
great  liking  for  the  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna,  and  even 

14 


scantier  respect  than  most  folk  accorded  him ;  and  the 
circumstance  that  she  had  once  considered  the  advisa 
bility  of  marrying  him  did  not  materially  raise  the  clergy 
man  in  her  estimation.  Inevitably  the  discarded  lover 
has  his  pedestal  builded  by  the  lapses  and  imperfections 
of  the  preferred  one,  and  day  by  day,  as  the  husband 
proves  himself  merely  human,  so  trait  by  trait  the  other 
looms  to  superior  proportions.  Thus  to  find  the  man  who 
has  aforetime  served  as  a  standard  for  invidious  com 
parisons — in  the  more  voluble  incidents  of  married  life — 
to  be  out-at-elbows  and  very  rarely  sober  is  humiliating. 
Lady  Allonby  had  seen  a  deal  of  Simon  Orts  during  the 
two  weeks  she  and  her  brother  had  been  Lord  Rokesle's 
guests  at  Stornoway;  and  every  time  she  saw  him,  the 
less  she  cared  to  think  of  the  fact  that  she  had  formerly 
liked  him. 

Her  voice  when  she  spoke  now  was  carefully  indiffer 
ent.  "What  is  curious,  Mr.  Orts?"  said  Lady  Allonby. 

He  stood  upon  the  hearth,  warming  his  hands,  and 
diffusing  a  not  overpleasant  odor  of  tobacco  and  stale 
alcohol.  "Faith,  that  damned  rascal  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Anastasia;  our  life  on  Usk  is  not  conducive 
to  a  mincing  nicety  of  speech.  That  rascal  Punshon 
made  some  difficulty  over  admitting  me;  you  might 
have  taken  him  for  a  sentinel,  with  Stornoway  in  a 
state  of  siege.  He  ruffled  me,  —  and  I  don't  like  it," 
Simon  Orts  said,  reflectively,  looking  down  upon  her. 
"No,  I  don't  like  it.  Where's  your  brother?"  he  de 
manded  on  a  sudden. 

"  Harry  and  Lord  Rokesle  are  at  cards,  I  believe.  And 
Mrs.  Morfit  has  retired  to  her  apartments  with  one  of  her 
usual  headaches,  so  that  I  have  been  alone  these  two 
hours.  You  visit  Stornoway  somewhat  late,  Mr.  Orts," 
Anastasia  Allonby  added,  with  point. 


He  jerked  his  thumb  ceilingward.  "The  cloth  is  at 
any  rascal's  beck  and  call.  Old  Holies,  my  Lord's  man, 
is  dying  up  yonder,  and  the  whim  seized  him  to  have  a 
clergyman  in.  God  knows  why,  for  it  appears  to  me  that 
one  knave  might  very  easily  make  his  way  to  hell  without 
having  another  knave  to  help  him.  And  Holies? — eh, 
well,  from  what  I  myself  know  of  him,  the  rogue  is  triply 
damned. ' '  His  mouth  puckered  as  he  set  about  unbutton 
ing  his  long,  rain-spattered  cloak,  which,  with  his  big  hat, 
he  flung  aside  upon  a  table.  "Gad!"  said  Simon  Orts, 
"we  are  most  of  us  damned  on  Usk;  and  that  is  why  I 
don't  like  it — "  He  struck  his  hand  against  his  thigh. 
"I  don't  like  it,  Anastasia." 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  she  languidly  retorted,  "but  I 
was  never  good  at  riddles." 

Swiftly  he  turned  and  glanced  about  the  hall,  debating. 
Lady  Allonby  lazily  regarded  him,  as  she  might  have 
looked  upon  some  slimy  but  harmless  reptile:  a  small, 
slim,  anxious  man,  she  found  him;  always  fidgeting,  al 
ways  placating  some  one,  but  never  without  a  covert 
sneer.  The  fellow  was  venomous;  his  eyes  only  were 
honest,  for  even  while  his  lips  were  about  their  wheedling, 
these  flashed  malice  at  you ;  and  their  shifting  was  so  un- 
remittent  that  afterward  you  recalled  them  as  an  ab 
solute  white,  like  the  eyes  of  a  statue.  On  Usk  and 
thereabouts  they  said  it  was  the  glare  from  within  of  his 
damned  soul,  already  at  white  heat;  but  they  were  a 
plain-spoken  lot  on  Usk.  To-night  Simon  Orts  was  all 
in  black ;  and  his  hair,  too,  and  his  gross  eyebrows  were 
black,  and  well-nigh  to  the  cheek-bones  of  his  clean 
shaven  countenance  the  thick  beard  showed  black  through 
the  skin. 

Now  he  kept  silence  for  a  lengthy  interval,  his  arms 
crossed  on  his  breast,  gnawing  meanwThile  at  the  finger- 

16 


1*0 

nails  of  his  left  hand  in  an  unattractive  fashion  he  had  of 
meditating.     When  words  came  it  was  in  a  torrent. 

"I  will  read  you  my  riddle,  then.  You  are  a  widow, 
rich;  as  women  go,  you  are  not  as  unpleasant  to  look  at 
as  most  of  'em.  If  it  became  a  clergyman  to  dwell  upon 
such  matters,  I  would  say  that  your  fleshly  habitation  is 
somewhat  too  fine  for  its  tenant,  since  I  know  you  to  be 
a  good-for-nothing  jilt.  However,  you  are  God's  handi 
work,  and  doubtless  He  had  His  reasons  for  constructing 
you.  My  Lord  is  poor;  last  summer  at  Tunbridge  you 
declined  to  marry  him.  I  am  in  his  confidence,  you 
observe.  He  took  your  decision  in  silence — 'ware  Rokesle 
when  he  is  quiet!  Eh,  I  know  the  man — 'tisn't  for  noth 
ing  that  these  ten  years  past  I  have  studied  his  whims, 
pampered  his  vanity,  lied  to  him,  toadied  him!  You 
admire  my  candor? — faith,  yes,  I  am  very  candid.  I  am 
Rokesle 's  hanger-on ;  he  took  me  out  of  the  gutter,  and  in 
my  fashion  I  am  grateful.  And  you? — Anastasia,  had 
you  treated  me  more  equitably  fifteen  years  ago,  I  would 
have  gone  to  the  stake  for  you,  singing ;  now  I  don't  value 
you  the  beard  of  an  onion.  But,  for  old  time's  sake,  I 
warn  you.  You  and  your  brother  are  Rokesle 's  guests — 
on  Usk!  Harry  Heleigh1  can  handle  a  sword,  I  grant  you, 
—but  you  are  on  Usk!  And  Mrs.  Morfit  is  here  to  play 
propriety — propriety  on  Usk,  God  save  the  mark!  And 
besides,  Rokesle  can  twist  his  sister  about  his  little  finger, 
as  the  phrase  runs.  And  I  find  sentinels  at  the  door! 
I  don't  like  it,  Anastasia.  In  his  way  Rokesle  loves  you; 
more  than  that,  you  are  one  of  the  best  matches  in  the 
kingdom,  an  ideal  match  to  retrieve  his  battered  fortunes ; 
and  my  worthy  patron,  I  regret  to  say,  is  not  yet  en- 

1  Henry  Heleigh,  thirteenth  Earl  of  Brudenel,  who  succeeded  his 
cousin  the  twelfth  Earl  in  1759,  and  lived  to  a  great  age.  Bavois, 
writing  in  1797,  calls  him  "a  very  fine,  strong  old  gentleman." 

17 


(gallantry 

registered  upon  the  Calendar  of  Saints."  Simon  Orts 
paused  with  a  short  laugh. 

But  the  woman  had  risen  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  widening 
and  a  thought  troubled,  though  her  lips  at  least  smiled 
contemptuously. 

"I  should  have  realized  that  this  late  in  the  evening 
you  would  scarcely  be  in  a  fit  condition  to  converse  with 
ladies.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Orts,  I  would  be  very  heartily 
glad  to  credit  your  warning  to  a  somewhat  officious 
friendliness,  were  it  not  that  the  odor  about  your  person 
compels  me  to  attribute  it  to  gin." 

"O,  I  have  been  drinking,"  he  conceded,  quite  un 
abashed  ;  "  I  have  been  drinking  with  a  most  commendable 
perseverance  for  these  fifteen  years.  But  at  present  I  am 
very  far  from  drunk."  Simon  Orts  took  a  turn  about 
the  hall ;  in  an  instant  he  faced  her  with  an  odd,  almost 
tender  smile.  "You  adorable,  empty-headed,  pink-and- 
white  fool,"  said  Simon  Orts,  "what  madness  induced 
you  to  come  to  Usk  ?  You  know  that  Rokesle  loves  you ; 
you  know  that  you  don't  mean  to  marry  him.  Then 
why  come  to  Usk  ?  Do  you  know  who  is  king  in  this  sea- 
washed  scrap  of  earth  ? — Rokesle.  German  George  reigns 
yonder  in  England,  but  here,  in  the  Isle  of  Usk,  Vincent 
Floyer  is  king.  And  it  is  not  precisely  a  convent  that  he 
directs.  The  men  of  Usk,  I  gather,  aften  ten  years'  ex 
perience  in  administering  spiritual  consolation  here 
abouts" — and  his  teeth  made  their  appearance  in  honor 
of  the  jest — "are  part  fisherman,  part  smuggler,  part 
pirate,  and  part  devil.  The  latter  ingredient  predominat 
ing,  they  have  no  very  unreasonable  apprehension  of  hell, 
and  would  cheerfully  invade  it  if  Rokesle  bade  'em  do  so. 
As  I  have  pointed  out,  my  worthy  patron  is  subject  to  the 
frailties  of  the  flesh.  O,  I  am  candid,  for  if  you  report  me 
to  his  Lordship  I  shall  lie  out  of  it.  I  have  had  practice 

18 


enough  to  do  it  speciously.  But  Rokesle — do  you  know 
what  Rokesle  is,  Anastasia?" 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  would  have  gone  on,  but 
Lady  Allonby  had  interrupted,  her  cheeks  flaming.  "  Yes, 
yes,"  she  cried;  "I  know  him  to  be  a  worthy  gentle 
man.  'Tis  true  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  marry 
him,  yet  I  am  proud  to  rank  Lord  Rokesle  among  my 
friends."  She  waved  her  hand  toward  the  chimney- 
piece,  where  hung  —  and  hangs  to-day  —  the  sword  of 
Aluric  Floyer,  the  founder  of  the  house  of  Rokesle.  "  Do 
you  see  that  old  sword,  Mr.  Orts  ?  The  man  who  wielded 
it  long  ago  was  a  gallant  gentleman  and  a  stalwart  cap 
tain.  And  my  Lord,  as  he  told  me  but  on  Thursday 
afternoon,  hung  it  there  that  he  might  always  have  in 
mind  the  fact  that  he  bore  the  name  of  this  man,  and 
must  bear  it  meritoriously.  My  Lord  is  a  gentleman. 
La,  believe  me,  if  you,  too,  were  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Orts, 
you  would  understand!  But  a  gentleman  is  not  a  tale 
bearer  ;  a  gentleman  does  not  defame  behind  his  back  the 
person  to  whom  he  owes  his  daily  bread." 

"So  he  has  been  gulling  you?"  said  Simon  Orts;  then 
quite  inconsequently :  "I  had  not  thought  anything  you 
could  say  would  hurt  me.  I  discover  I  was  wrong.  Per 
haps  I  am  not  a  gentleman.  Faith,  no;  I  am  only  a 
shabby  drunkard,  a  disgrace  to  my  cloth,  am  I  not, 
Anastasia?  Accordingly,  I  fail  to  perceive  what  old 
Aluric  Floyer  has  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand.  He 
was  reasonably  virtuous,  I  suppose ;  putting  aside  a  disas 
trous  appetite  for  fruit,  so  was  Adam;  but,  viewing  their 
descendants,  I  ruefully  admit  that  in  each  case  the  strain 
has  somewhat  deteriorated." 

There  was  a  brief  silence;  then  Lady  Allonby  indif 
ferently  observed:  "Perhaps  I  was  discourteous.  I  ask 
your  forgiveness,  Mr.  Orts.  And  now,  if  you  will  pardon 

19 


(Sallanlrg 

the  suggestion,  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  your  dying 
parishioner." 

But  she  had  touched  the  man  to  the  quick.  "  I  am  a 
drunkard ;  who  made  me  so  ?  Who  lured  me  on  with  soft 
words  and  kisses — yes,  kisses,  my  Lady! — till  a  wealthier 
man  came  a-wooing,  and  then  flung  me  aside  like  an  old 
shoe?"  Simon  Orts  demanded  of  her,  peering  into  her 
face. 

This  drenched  her  cheeks  with  crimson.  "  I  think  we 
had  better  not  refer  to  that  boy-and-girl  affair.  You 
cannot  blame  me  for  your  debauched  manner  of  living. 
I  found  before  it  was  too  late  that  I  did  not  love  you. 
I  was  only  a  girl,  and  'twas  natural  that  at  first  I  should 
be  mistaken  in  my  fancies." 

The  Vicar  had  caught  her  by  each  wrist.  "  You  don't 
understand,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  You  never  under 
stood,  for  you  have  no  more  heart  than  one  of  those 
pink-and-white  bisque  figures  that  you  resemble.  '  You 
don't  love  me,  and  therefore  I  will  go  to  the  devil '  may 
not  be  a  logical  deduction,  but  'tis  a  very  popular  one. 
You  don't  understand  that,  do  you,  Anastasia  ?  You  don't 
understand  how  when  one  is  acutely  miserable  one  re 
members  that  at  the  bottom  of  a  wineglass — or  even  at 
the  bottom  of  a  tumbler  of  gin — one  may  come  upon 
happiness,  or  at  least  contented  acquiescence  to  whatever 
the  gods  may  send.  You  don't  understand  how  one  re 
members,  when  the  woman  is  lost,  that  there  are  other 
women  whose  lips  are  equally  red  and  whose  hearts  are 
tenderer  and — yes,  whose  virtue  is  less  exigent.  No; 
women  never  understand  these  things:  and  in  any  event, 
you  would  not,  because  you  are  only  an  adorable  pink-and- 
white  fool." 

"O,  O!"  she  cried,  struggling.  "How  dare  you?  You 
insult  me,  you  coward!" 

20 


"Perhaps  I  do;  comfort  yourself  with  the  reflection 
that  it  scarcely  matters  what  a  sot  like  me  may  elect  to 
say.  And  since  you  do  not  understand,  Anastasia,  I  will 
tell  you  the  lover  turned  adrift  may  well  profit  by  the 
example  of  his  predecessors.  Other  lovers  have  been 
forsaken,  both  masculine  and  feminine:  and  I  have  heard 
that  when  Chryseis  was  reft  away  from  Agamemnon,  the 
anax  andron  made  himself  tolerably  comfortable  with 
Briseis;  and  that  when  Theseus  sneaked  off  in  the  night, 
Ariadne,  having  wept  for  a  decent  period,  managed  in 
the  ultimate  to  console  herself  with  Thracian  Bacchus — 
which  I  have  always  apprehended  to  be  a  courteous 
method  of  stating  that  the  daughter  of  Minos  took  to 
drink.  So  the  forsaken  lover  has  his  choice  of  consola 
tions — wine  or  women.  I  have  tried  both,  Anastasia. 
And  I  tell  you—" 

He  dropped  her  hands  as  though  they  had  been  embers. 
Lord  Rokesle  had  come  quietly  into  the  hall. 

"Why,  what's  this ?"  Lord  Rokesle  demanded.  " Simon, 
you  aren't  making  love  to  Lady  Allonby,  I  hope?  Fie, 
man!  remember  your  cloth." 

Simon  Orts  wheeled  —  a  different  being,  servile  and 
cringing.  "Your  Lordship  is  pleased  to  be  pleasant. 
Indeed,  though,  I  fear  that  your  ears  must  burn,  sir,  for 
I  was  but  now  expatiating  upon  the  manifold  kindnesses 
your  Lordship  has  been  so  generous  as  to  confer  upon  your 
unworthy  Vicar.  I  was  admiring  Lady  Allonby's  ruffle, 
sir — Valenciennes,  I  take  it,  and  very  choice." 

Lord  Rokesle  laughed.  "So  I  am  to  thank  you  for 
blowing  my  trumpet,  am  I?"  said  Lord  Rokesle.  "Well, 
you  are  not  a  bad  fellow,  Simon,  so  long  as  you  are  any 
where  near  sober.  And  now  be  off  with  you  to  Holies — 
the  rascal  is  dying,  they  tell  me.  My  luck,  Simon!  He 
made  up  a  cravat  better  than  any  one  in  the  kingdom." 

21 


(Sallanirg 

"The  ways  of  Providence  are  inscrutable,"  Simon  Orts 
considered;  "and  if  Providence  has  in  verity  elected  to 
chasten  your  Lordship,  doubtless  it  shall  be,  as  anciently 
in  the  case  of  Job  the  Patriarch,  repaid  by  a  recompense, 
by  a  thousandfold  recompense."  And  with  a  meaning 
glance  toward  Lady  Allonby  —  a  glance  that  said:  "I, 
too,  have  a  tongue" — he  was  mounting  the  stairway  to 
the  upper  corridor  when  Lord  Rokesle's  voice  stopped  him 
half-way. 

"By  my  conscience!  I  forgot,"  said  Lord  Rokesle; 
"don't  leave  Stornoway  without  seeing  me  again.  I  shall 
want  you  presently." 

II 

Lord  Rokesle  sat  down  beside  the  fire  in  silence. 
Neither  spoke  for  a  while. 

In  a  sombre  way  Lord  Rokesle  was  a  handsome  man, 
and  to-night,  in  brown  and  gold,  very  stately.  His  bear 
ing  savored  faintly  of  the  hidalgo ;  indeed,  his  mother  was 
a  foreign  woman,  cast  ashore  on  Usk,  from  a  wrecked 
Spanish  vessel,  and  incontinently  married  by  the  despot 
of  the  island.  For  her,  Death  had  delayed  his  advent 
unmercifully;  but  her  reason  survived  the  marriage  by 
two  years  only,  and  there  were  those  familiar  with  the 
late  Lord  Rokesle's1  peculiarities  who  considered  that  in 
this,  at  least,  the  crazed  lady  was  fortunate.  Among 
these  it  was  also  esteemed  a  matter  deserving  comment 
that  in  the  wrecks  so  frequent  about  Usk  the  women 
sometimes  survived,  but  the  men  never;  though,  doubt 
less,  this  was  merely  a  scrap  of  parochial  backbiting. 

1  Born  1685,  and  accidentally  killed  by  Sir  Piers  Sabiston  in  1738; 
an  accurate  account  of  this  notorious  duellist,  profligate,  charlatan 
and  playwright  is  given  in  Ireson's  Letters. 

22 


Now  Lord  Rokesle  regarded  Lady  Allonby,  what  time 
she  displayed  conspicuous  interest  in  the  play  of  the 
flames.  But  by-and-by,  "O  vulgarity!"  said  Lady  Allon 
by.  "Pray  endeavor  to  look  a  little  more  cheerful. 
Positively,  you  are  glaring  at  me  like  one  of  those  dis 
agreeable  beggars  one  so  often  sees  staring  at  bakery 
windows." 

He  smiled,  yet  with  an  odd  hint  of  scorn  about  the 
nostrils.  "Do  you  remember  what  the  Frenchman 
wrote — et  pain  ne  voyent  qu'aux  fenetresf  There  is  not  an 
enormous  difference  between  me  and  the  tattered  rascal 
of  Chepe,  for  we  both  stare  longingly  at  what  we  most 
desire.  And  were  I  minded  to  hunt  the  simile  to  the  foot 
of  the  letter,  I  would  liken  your  coquetry  to  the  inter 
vening  window-pane — not  easily  broken  through,  but 
very,  very  transparent,  Anastasia." 

"You  are  not  overwhelmingly  polite,"  she  said,  re 
flectively;  "but,  then,  I  suppose,  living  in  the  country  is 
sure  to  damage  a  man's  manners.  Still,  in  sober  earnest, 
my  dear  Orson,  you  smack  too  much  of  the  forest." 

"Anastasia,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  bending  toward  her, 
"will  you  always  be  thus  cruel?  Do  you  not  understand 
that  in  this  world  you  are  the  only  thing  I  care  for  ?  You 
think  me  a  boor ;  perhaps  I  am — yet  it  rests  with  you, 
my  Lady,  to  make  me  what  you  will.  For  I  love  you, 
Anastasia." 

"Why,  how  delightful  of  you!"  said  she,  languidly. 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  jesting.  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you."  My  Lord's  color  was  rising. 

But  Lady  Allonby  yawned  with  deliberate  cruelty. 
"Your  honor's  most  devoted,"  she  declared  herself; 
"still,  you  need  not  boast  of  your  affection  as  if  falling  in 
love  with  me  were  an  uncommonly  difficult  achievement. 
That,  too,  is  scarcely  polite." 

23 


(gallantry 

"For  the  tenth  time  I  ask  you  will  you  marry  me?" 
said  Lord  Rokesle,  and  impatiently. 

"Is't  only  the  tenth  time?  Dear  me,  it  seems  like  the 
thousandth.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  Heavens, 
my  Lord,  how  can  you  expect  me  to  marry  a  man  who 
glares  at  me  like  that?  Positively  you  look  as  ferocious 
as  the  blackamoor  in  the  tragedy — the  fellow  who  smoth 
ered  his  wife  because  she  misplaced  a  handkerchief,  you 
remember." 

Lord  Rokesle  had  risen  by  this,  and  he  paced  the  hall 
for  a  moment,  fighting  down  his  resentment.  "I  am  no 
Othello,"  he  said  at  last;  " though,  indeed,  I  think  that 
the  love  I  bear  you  is  of  a  sort  which  rarely  stirs  our 
English  blood.  'Tis  not  for  nothing  I  am  half -Spaniard. 
I  warn  you,  Anastasia,  my  love  is  a  consuming  blaze 
that  will  not  pause  for  considerations  of  policy  or  even 
honor.  And  you  madden  me,  Anastasia!  To-day  you 
hear  my  protestations  with  sighs  and  glances  and  faint 
denials ;  to-morrow  you  have  only  taunts  for  me.  Some 
times,  I  think,  'tis  hatred  rather  than  love  I  bear  you. 
Sometimes — "  He  clutched  at  his  breast  with  a  wild 
gesture.  "I  burn!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "Woman,  give 
me  back  a  human  heart  in  place  of  this  flame  you  have 
kindled  here,  or  I  shall  go  mad!  .Last  night  I  dreamed 
of  hell — of  the  hell  divines  prate  of,  with  its  souls  toasted 
on  burning  forks  and  fed  with  sops  of  bale-fire — and 
you  were  there,  Anastasia,  where  the  flames  leaped 
and  curled  like  red-blazoned  snakes  about  the  poor 
damned.  And  I,  too,  was  there.  And  through  eternity 
I  heard  you  cry  to  God  in  vain,  O  dear,  wonderful, 
golden-haired  woman!  and  we  could  see  Him,  somehow,— 
see  Him,  a  great  way  off,  with  straight,  white  brows  that 
frowned  upon  you  pitilessly.  And  I  was  glad,  glad, 
glad!  For  I  knew  then  that  I  hated  you.  And  even 

24 


now,  when  I  think  I  must  go  mad  for  love  of  you,  I  yet 
hate  you  with  a  fervor  that  shakes  and  thrills  in  every 
fibre  of  me.  O,  I  burn,  I  burn!"  he  cried,  with  the  same 
frantic  clutching  at  his  breast. 

Lady  Allonby  had  risen,  half-afraid,  for  she  saw  the 
man  was  dangerous.  Swiftly  she  recalled  blurred  tales 
of  his  mother,  legends  of  the  foreign  woman's  monotonous 
wailings  at  full  moon— wailings  for  that  unknown  Manuel 
whose  name  she  never  spoke  when  her  thoughts  were 
lucid.  She  had  waited  for  a  long  time,  that  foreign  woman, 
to  avenge  her  wrongs  upon  the  house  of  Rokesle. 

11  Positively,"  Lady  Allonby  drawled,  "I  must  ask  you 
to  open  a  window  if  you  intend  to  continue  in  this  strain. 
D'ye  mean  to  suffocate  me,  my  Lord,  with  your  flames 
and  your  blazes  and  your  brimstone  and  so  on?  You 
breathe  conflagrations,  like  a  devil  in  a  pantomime.  I 
had  as  soon  converse  with  a  piece  of  fireworks.  So,  if 
you'll  pardon  me,  I  will  go  to  my  brother." 

At  the  sound  of  her  high,  crisp  speech  his  frenzy  fell 
from  him  like  a  mantle.  "And  you  let  me  kiss  you  yes 
terday,"  he  said,  quite  placidly,  though  his  eyes  were 
sparks.  "O,  I  know  you  struggled,  but  you  did  not 
struggle  very  hard,  did  you,  Anastasia?" 

"Insolent!"  she  cried.  "I — I  scorn  your  insinuation. 
I  repeat,  my  Lord,  I  wish  to  go  to  my  brother,"  said  Lady 
Allonby,  and  stamped  her  foot. 

"Egad!"  Lord  Rokesle  retorted,  "that  reminds  me  I 
have  been  notably  remiss.  I  bear  you  a  message  from 
Harry.  He  had  to-night  a  letter  from  Job  Nangle,  who, 
it  seems,  has  a  purchaser  for  Trevor's  Folly  at  last.  The 
fellow  is  with  our  excellent  Nangle  at  Peniston  Friars, 
and  offers  liberal  terms  if  the  sale  be  instant.  The  chance 
was  too  promising  to  let  slip,  so  Harry  left  the  island  an 
hour  ago.  It  happened  by  a  rare  chance  that  some  of  my 

25 


(gallantry 

fellows  were  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  the  mainland — 
and  he  knew  that  he  could  safely  intrust  you  to  Mrs. 
Morfit 's  duennaship,  he  said." 

"He  should  not  have  done  so,"  Lady  Allonby  observed, 
in  a  contention  of  mind.  "He — I  will  go  to  Mrs.  Morfit — 
let  me  pass,  my  Lord." 

"Why,  that's  the  unfortunate  part  of  the  whole  affair," 
said  Lord  Rokesle.  "The  same  boat  brought  Sabina 
an  epistle  which  summoned  her  to  the  bedside  of  her 
husband,1  who,  it  appears,  lies  desperately  ill  at  Kuyper 
Manor.  It  happened  by  a  rare  chance  that  some  of  my 
fellows  were  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  the  mainland 
• — from  Heriz  pier  yonder,  not  from  the  end  of  the  island 
whence  Harry  sailed — so  she  and  her  maid  embarked  in- 
stanter.  Of  course,  there  was  your  brother  here  to  play 
propriety,  she  said.  And  by  the  oddest  misfortune  in  the 
world,"  Lord  Rokesle  sighed,  "I  forgot  to  tell  her  that 
Harry  Heleigh  had  left  Usk  a  half-hour  earlier.  My 
memory  is  lamentably  treacherous." 

Now  she  had  become  a  hunted  animal.  "O,  you 
coward!  You  planned  this!" 

"  Candidly,  yes.  Nangle  is  my  agent  as  well  as  Harry's, 
you  may  remember.  I  have  any  quantity  of  his  letters, 
and  of  course  an  equal  number  of  Archibald's.  So  I  spent 
the  morning  in  my  own  apartments,  Anastasia — tracing 
letters  against  the  window-pane,  which  was,  I  suppose,  a 
childish  recreation,  but  then  what  would  you  have?  As 
you  very  justly  observe,  country  life  invariably  coarsens 
a  man's  tastes;  and  accordingly,  as  you  now  recall,  I 
actually  declined  a  game  of  dearie  with  you  in  order  to 
indulge  in  this  puerile  amusement.  Decidedly,  my  dear, 

'Archibald  Morfit,  M.P.  for  Salop,  and  in  1753  elected  Speaker, 
which  office  he  declined  on  account  of  ill-health.  He  was  created  a 
baronet  in  1758,  through  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk's  influence. 

26 


you  must  train  your  husband's  imagination  for  superior 
flights — when  you  shall  be  Lady  Rokesle." 

She  was  staring  at  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  portent. 
"I  am  alone,"  she  said.  "Alone — in  this  place — with 
you!  Alone!  you  devil!" 

"The  epithet  is  more  remarkable  for  its  force  than  for 
its  justice.  But,  indeed,  you  are  to  all  intent  alone  upon 
Usk,  and  upon  Usk  there  are  many  devils.  There  are 
ten  of  them  on  guard  yonder,  by  the  way,  in  case  your 
brother  should  return  inopportunely,  though  that's 
scarcely  probable.  Obedient  devils,  you  observe,  Anas- 
tasia — devils  who  exert  and  check  their  deviltry  as  I  bid 
'em,  for  they  esteem  me  Lucifer's  lieutenant.  And  I 
grant  the  present  situation  outrages  propriety,  yet  the 
evil  is  not  irremediable.  Lady  Allonby  may  not,  if  she 
value  her  reputation,  spend  this  night  at  Stornoway;  but 
here  am  I,  and  up-stairs  is  the  parson.  Believe  me,  Anas- 
tasia,  the  most  vinegarish  prude  could  never  object  to 
Lady  Rokesle 's  spending  not  only  to-night  at  Stornoway, 
but  all  future  nights." 

"Let  me  think,  let  me  think!"  Lady  Allonby  said,  and 
her  hands  feverishly  plucked  now  at  her  hair,  now  at  her 
dress.  She  appeared  dazed.  "I  can't  think!"  she  wailed 
on  a  sudden.  ' '  I  am  afraid.  I —  O  Vincent,  Vincent, 
you  cannot  do  this  thing!  I  trusted  you,  Vincent.  I 
know  I  let  you  make  love  to  me,  and  I  relished  having 
you  make  love  to  me.  Some  women  are  like  that.  But 
I  cannot  marry  you,  Vincent.  There  is  a  man  yonder  in 
England  I  love.  He  does  not  care  for  me  any  more, — he 
is  in  love  with  my  step-daughter.  That  is  very  amusing, 
is  it  not,  Vincent  ?  Some  day  I  may  be  his  mother-in-law. 
Why  don't  you  laugh,  Vincent  ?  Come,  let  us  both  laugh 
— first  at  this  and  then  at  the  jest  you  have  just  played  on 
me.  Do  you  know,  for  an  instant,  I  believed  you  were  in 

27 


(gallantry 

earnest?  But  Harry  went  to  sleep  over  the  cards,  didn't 
he?  And  Mrs.  Morfit  has  gone  to  bed  with  one  of  her 
usual  headaches?  Of  course;  and  you  thought  you 
would  retaliate  upon  me  for  teasing  you.  You  were 
quite  right.  'Twas  an  excellent  jest.  Now  let  us  laugh 
at  it.  Laugh,  Vincent!  O!"  she  cried,  her  voice  rising 
to  a  scream;  "for  the  love  of  God,  laugh,  laugh! — or  I 
shall  go  mad!" 

But  Lord  Rokesle  was  a  man  of  ice.  "Matrimony  is  a 
serious  matter,  Anastasia;  'tis  not  becoming  in  those  so 
soon  to  enter  it  to  exhibit  undue  levity.  I  wonder  what's 
keeping  Simon?" 

"Simon  Orts!"  she  said,  in  a  half -whisper.  "O,  did 
fate  ever  play  a  more  hideous  jest  upon  a  woman?  I  am 
at  your  mercy — you,  the  two  men  I  have  always  made 
my  sport!  You!"  But  now  a  trivial  cunning  woke  in 
her  face,  and  she  came  toward  him,  smiling.  "Why,  of 
course,  I  teased  you,  Vincent,  but  there  was  never  any 
hard  feeling,  was  there?  And  you  really  wish  me  to 
marry  you?  Well,  we  must  see,  Vincent.  But,  as  you 
say,  matrimony  is  a  serious  matter.  D'ye  know  you  say 
very  sensible  things,  Vincent? — not  at  all  like  those  silly 
fops  yonder  in  London.  I  dare  say  you  and  I  would  be 
very  happy  together.  But  you  wouldn't  have  any  respect 
for  me  if  I  married  you  on  a  sudden  like  this,  would  you  ? 
Of  course  not.  So  you  will  let  me  consider  it.  Come 
to  me  a  month  from  now,  say — is  that  too  long  to  wait? 
Well,  I  think  'tis  too  long  myself.  Say  a  week,  then.  I 
must  have  my  wedding-finery,  you  comprehend.  We 
women  are  such  vain  creatures — not  big  and  brave  and 
sensible  like  you  men.  See,  for  example,  how  much 
bigger  your  hand  is  than  mine — mine's  quite  lost  in  it, 
isn't  it?  So — since  I  am  only  a  vain,  chattering,  tiny, 
small,  helpless  little  thing — you  are  going  to  indulge  me 

28 


and  let  me  go  up  to  London  for  some  new  clothes,  aren't 
you,  Vincent  ?  Of  course  you  will ;  and  we  will  be  married 
in  a  week.  But  you  will  let  me  go  to  London  first,  won't 
you? — away  from  this  dreadful  place,  away — I  didn't 
mean  that.  I  suppose  it  is  a  very  agreeable  place  when 
you  get  accustomed  to  it.  And  'tis  only  for  clothes — O, 
I  swear  it  is  only  for  clothes,  Vincent!  And  you  said  you 
would — yes,  only  a  moment  ago  you  distinctly  said  you 
would  let  me  go.  Tis  not  as  if  I  were  not  coming  back 
—who  said  I  would  not  come  back?  Of  course  I  will. 
But  you  must  give  me  time,  Vincent  dear — you  must,  you 
must,  I  tell  you!  O  God!"  she  sobbed,  and  flung  from 
her  the  loathed  hand  she  was  fondling,  "it's  no  use!" 

"No,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  rather  sadly.  "I  am  not 
Samson,  nor  are  you  Delilah  to  cajole  me.  It's  of  no  use, 
Anastasia.  I  would  have  preferred  that  you  came  to  me 
voluntarily,  but  since  you  cannot,  I  mean  to  take  you 
unwilling.  Simon,"  he  called,  loudly,  "does  that  rascal 
intend  to  spin  out  his  dying  interminably?  Charon's 
waiting,  man." 

From  above,  "Coming,  my  Lord,"  said  Simon  Orts. 


Ill 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  descended  the  stairway  with 
deliberation.  His  eyes  twitched  from  the  sobbing  woman 
to  Lord  Rokesle,  and  then  back  again,  in  that  furtive  way 
he  had  of  glancing  about  a  room  without  moving  his  head ; 
he  seemed  to  lie  in  ambush  under  his  gross  brows;  and 
whatever  his  thoughts  may  have  been,  he  gave  them  no 
utterance. 

"  Simon,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  "  Lady  Allonby  is  about  to 
make  me  the  happiest  of  men.  Have  you  a  prayer-book 

29 


(Ballautry 

about  you,  Master  Parson? — for  here's  a  loving  couple 
desirous  of  entering  the  blessed  state  of  matrimony." 

"The  match  is  somewhat  of  the  suddenest,"  said  Simon 
Orts.  "But  I  have  known  these  impromptu  marriages 
to  turn  out  very  happily — very  happily,  indeed,"  he  re 
peated,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  smiling  horribly. 
"  I  gather  that  Mr.  Heleigh  will  not  grace  the  ceremony 
with  his  presence?" 

They  understood  one  another,  these  two.  Lord 
Rokesle  grinned,  and  in  a  few  words  told  the  ecclesiastic  of 
his  trick  to  insure  the  absence  of  the  other  guests ;  and 
Simon  Orts  also  grinned,  but  respectfully — the  grin  of  the 
true  lackey  wearing  his  master's  emotions  like  his  master's 
clothes,  at  second-hand. 

"A  very  pretty  stratagem,"  said  Simon  Orts;  "un 
conventional,  I  must  confess,  but  it  is  proverbially  known 
that  all's  fair  in  love." 

At  this  Lady  Allonby  came  to  him,  catching  his  hand 
in  a  frenzy  of  helplessness.  "There  is  only  you,  Simon," 
she  said.  "O,  there  is  no  hope  in  that  lustful  devil 
yonder.  But  you  are  not  all  base,  Simon.  You  are  a 
man — ah,  God !  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  rip  out  that  devil's 
heart — his  defiled  and  infamous  heart!  I  would  trample 
upon  it,  I  would  feed  it  to  dogs — !"  She  paused.  Her 
impotent  fury  was  jerking  at  every  muscle,  was  chok 
ing  her.  "  But  I  am  only  a  woman.  Simon,  you  used 
to  love  me.  You  cannot  have  forgotten,  Simon.  O, 
haven't  you  any  pity  on  a  woman?  Remember,  Simon 
— remember  how  happy  we  were!  Don't  you  remember 
how  the  night- jars  used  to  call  to  one  another  when  we 
sat  o'  moonlit  evenings  under  the  elm-tree? — our  elm- 
tree,  Simon.  And  d'ye  remember  the  cottage  we  planned, 
Simon  ? — where  we  were  going  to  live  on  bread  and  cheese 
and  kisses  ?  And  how  we  quarrelled  because  I  wanted  to 

30 


train  vines  over  it?  You  said  the  rooms  would  be  too 
dark.  You  said — O,  Simon,  Simon!  if  only  I  had  gone 
to  live  with  you  in  that  little  cottage  we  planned  and 
never  builded!"  Lady  Allonby  was  at  his  feet  now. 
She  fawned  upon  him  like  a  spaniel  expectant  of  a  thrash 
ing. 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  ran  over  the  leaves  of  his 
prayer-book  dispassionately,  till  he  had  found  the  mar 
riage  service,  and  then  closed  the  book,  his  forefinger 
marking  the  place.  Lord  Rokesle  stood  apart,  and  with 
a  sly  and  meditative  smile  observed  them. 

"Your  plea  is  a  remarkable  one,"  said  Simon  Orts. 
"  As  I  understand  it,  you  appeal  to  me  to  meddle  in  your 
affairs  on  the  ground  that  you  once  made  a  fool  of  me. 
I  think  the  obligation  is  largely  optional.  I  remember 
quite  clearly  the  incidents  to  which  you  refer,  and  it 
shames  even  an  old  sot  like  me  to  think  that  I  was  ever 
so  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  a  good-for-nothing  jilt.  I  re 
member  every  vow  you  ever  made  to  me,  Anastasia,  and 
I  know  they  were  all  lies.  I  remember  every  kiss,  every 
glance,  every  caress — all  lies,  Anastasia!  And  gad!  the 
only  emotion  it  rouses  in  me  is  a  mild  wonder  as  to  why 
my  worthy  patron  here  should  want  to  marry  you.  Of 
course  you  are  very  wealthy,  but,  personally,  I  would  not 
put  up  with  you  for  double  the  money.  I  must  ask  you 
to  rise,  Lady  Rokesle — pardon  me  if  I  somewhat  anticipate 
your  title." 

Lady  Allonby  stumbled  to  her  feet.  "Is  there  no 
manhood  in  the  world?"  she  asked,  with  a  puzzled  voice. 
"  Has  neither  of  you  ever  heard  of  manhood,  though  but 
as  distantly  as  men  hear  summer  thunder  ?  Had  neither 
of  you  a  woman  for  a  mother — a  woman,  as  I  am — or  a 
father  who  was  not — O  God! — not  as  you  are?" 

"These  rhetorical  passages,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  "while 


(gallantry 

very  elegantly  expressed,  are  scarcely  to  the  point.  So 
you  and  Simon  went  a-philandering  once?  Egad,  that 
lends  quite  a  touch  of  romance  to  the  affair.  But  de 
spatch,  Parson  Simon — your  lady's  for  your  betters  now." 

"Dearly  beloved — "  said  Simon  Orts. 

"Simon,  you  are  not  all  base.  I  am  helpless,  Simon, 
utterly  helpless.  There  was  a  Simon  once  would  not 
have  seen  me  weep.  There  was  a  Simon— 

"  — we  are  gathered  together  here  in  the  sight  of  God — ' ' 

"  You  cannot  do  it,  Simon — do  I  not  know  you  to  the 
marrow?  Remember — not  me — not  the  vain  folly  of 
my  girlhood! — nay,  remember  the  man  you  have  been, 
Simon  Orts!"  Fiercely  Lady  Allonby  caught  him  by  the 
shoulder.  "Ah,  thank  God!  thank  God!"  she  sobbed. 
"You  do  remember!  You  do  remember,  don't  you, 
Simon?" 

The  Vicar  stared  at  her.  " The  man  I  have  been,"  said 
Simon  Orts;  "yes! — the  man  I  have  been!"  Something 
clicked  in  his  throat  with  sharp  distinctness. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  yawning,  "this 
getting  married  appears  to  be  an  uncommonly  tedious 
business." 

Then  a  curious  event  was  sensible.  Simon  Orts  laid 
aside  his  prayer-book  and  said:  "I  cannot  do  it,  my 
Lord.  The  woman's  right." 

She  clapped  her  hands  to  her  breast,  and  stood  thus, 
reeling  upon  her  feet.  You  would  have  thought  her 
in  the  crisis  of  some  physical  agony;  immediately  she 
breathed  again,  deeply  but  with  a  flinching  inhalation, 
as  though  the  contact  of  the  air  scorched  her  lungs,  and, 
swaying,  fell  to  the  floor  limply. 

"  I  entreat  your  pardon  ?"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  and  with 
out  study  of  her  condition.  This  was  men's  business  now, 
and  over  it  his  brow  began  to  pucker. 

32 


So  it  was  Simon  Orts  who  lifted  Lady  Allonby  and  bore 
her  to  a  long  settle.  He  passed  rearward  to  arrange  a 
cushion  under  her  head,  with  an  awkward,  grudging 
tenderness,  and  then  rose  to  face  Lord  Rokesle  across  the 
disordered  pink  fripperies. 

"  The  woman's  right,  my  Lord.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  manhood.  Manhood!"  Simon  Orts  repeated,  with  a 
sort  of  wonder;  "why,  I  might  have  boasted  it  once. 
Then  came  this  woman  to  trick  me  into  a  fool's  paradise— 
to  trick  me  into  utter  happiness,  till  Stephen  Allonby,  a 
marquis's  son,  clapped  eyes  on  her  and  whistled — and 
within  the  moment  to  fling  me  aside.  May  God  forgive 
me,  I  forgot  I  was  His  servant  then!  I  set  out  to  go  to 
the  devil,  but  I  went  further  than  that ;  for  I  went  to  you, 
Vincent  Floyer.  You  gave  me  bread  when  I  was  starv 
ing, — but  'twas  at  a  price.  Ay,  the  price  was  that  I  dance 
attendance  on  you,  to  aid  and  applaud  your  knaveries, 
to  be  your  pander,  your  lackey,  your  confederate,  as 
occasion  might  serve,  to  puff  out,  in  effect,  the  last  spark 
of  manhood  in  my  sot's  body.  O,  I  am  indeed  beholden 
to  you  two!  to  her  for  making  me  a  sot,  and  to  you  for 
making  me  a  lackey.  But  I  will  save  her  from  you, 
Vincent  Floyer.  Not  for  her  sake" — he  looked  down 
upon  the  prostrate  woman  and  snarled.  "Christ,  no! 
But  I'll  do  it  for  the  sake  of  the  boy  I  have  been,  since  I 
owe  that  boy  some  reparation.  I  have  ruined  his  nimble 
body,  I  have  dulled  the  wits  he  gloried  in,  I  have  made  his 
name  a  foul  thing  that  honesty  spits  out  of  her  mouth ; 
but  as  God  reigns  in  heaven,"  Simon  Orts  cried,  in  a  great 
voice,  "  I  will  cleanse  that  name  to-night!" 

"O,  bless  me,"  Lord  Rokesle  observed;  "I  begin  to 
fear  these  heroics  are  contagious.  Possibly  I,  too,  shall 
begin  to  rant  in  a  moment.  Meanwhile,  as  I  understand 
it,  you  decline  to  perform  the  ceremony.  I  have  had  to 

33 


(gallantry 

warn  you  before  this,  Simon,  that  you  mustn't  take  too 
much  gin  when  I  am  apt  to  need  you.  You  are  very 
pitifully  drunk,  man.  You  defy  me!  Why,  you  are  my 
chattel,  bought  and  paid  for;  the  devil  may  consider  that 
he  owns  your  soul,  but  I  hold  a  prior  mortgage.  You 
defy  me!" — he  laughed,  genially,  for  the  notion  amused 
him.  "Wine  is  a  mocker,  Simon.  Come,  despatch, 
Parson  Lickspittle,  and  let's  have  no  more  of  these  lofty 
sentiments." 

"I  cannot  do  it.  I —  O  my  Lord,  my  Lord!  You 
wouldn't  kill  an  unarmed  man!"  Simon  Orts  whined,  with 
a  sudden  alteration  of  tone,  for  Lord  Rokesle  had  com 
posedly  drawn  his  sword,  and  its  point  was  now  not  far 
from  the  Vicar's  breast. 

"  I  trust  that  I  shall  not  be  compelled  to.  Egad,  it  is  a 
very  ludicrous  business  when  the  bridegroom  is  forced  to 
hold  a  sword  to  the  parson's  bosom  all  during  the  cere 
mony;  but  a  ceremony  we  must  have,  Simon,  for  Lady 
Allonby's  jointure  is  considerable.  Otherwise —  Harkee, 
my  man,  don't  play  the  fool!  there  are  my  fellows  yonder, 
any  one  of  whom  would  twist  your  neck  at  a  word  from 
me.  And  do  you  think  I  would  boggle  at  a  word  ?  Gad, 
Simon,  I  believed  you  knew  me  better!" 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  kept  silence  for  an  instant, 
his  eyes  twitching  about  the  hall,  in  that  stealthy  way  of 
his.  Finally,  "It  is  no  use,"  said  he.  "A  poor  knave 
cannot  afford  the  luxury  of  honesty.  My  life  is  not  a 
valuable  one,  perhaps,  but  even  vermin  have  an  aversion 
to  death.  I  resume  my  lackey  ship,  Lord  Rokesle.  Per 
haps  'twas  only  the  gin.  Perhaps —  In  any  event,  I  am 
once  more  at  your  service.  And  as  guaranty  of  this  I 
warn  you  that  you  are  exhibiting  in  the  affair  scant  fore 
thought.  Mr.  Heleigh  is  but  three  miles  distant.  If  he, 
by  any  chance,  get  wind  of  this  business,  Denstroude  will 

34 


find  a  boat  for  him  readily  enough — ay,  and  men,  too, 
since  the  Colonel  is  at  bitter  feud  with  you.  Many  of 
your  people  visit  the  mainland  every  night,  and  in  their 
cups  the  inhabitants  of  Usk  are  not  taciturn.  An  idle 
word  spoken  over  an  inn  table  may  bring  an  armed  com 
pany  thundering  about  your  gates.  You  should  have  set 
sentinels,  my  Lord." 

"I  have  already  done  so,"  Rokesle  said;  "there  are  ten 
of  'em  yonder.  Still  there  is  something  in  what  you  say. 
We  will  make  this  affair  certain." 

Lord  Rokesle  crossed  the  hall  to  the  foot  of  the  stair 
way  and  struck  thrice  upon  the  gong  hanging  there. 
Presently  the  door  leading  to  the  corridor  opened,  and  a 
man  came  into  the  hall. 

"Punshon,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  "have  any  boats  left 
the  island  to-night?" 

"No,  my  Lord." 

"  You  will  see  that  none  do.  Also,  no  man  is  to  leave 
Stornoway  to-night,  either  to  visit  Heriz  Magna  or  the 
mainland;  and  no  man  is  to  enter  Stornoway.  Do  you 
understand,  Punshon?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

"  If  you  will  pardon  me,"  said  Simon  Orts,  with  a  grin, 
"I  have  an  appointment  to-night.  You'd  not  have  me 
break  faith  with  a  lady?" 

"  You  are  a  lecherous  rascal,  Simon.  But  do  as  you  are 
bid  and  I  indulge  you.  I  am  not  afraid  of  your  going  to 
Harry  Heleigh — after  performing  the  ceremony.  Nay, 
my  lad,  for  you  are  thereby  particeps  criminis.  You  will 
pass  Mr.  Orts,  Punshon.  No  one  else." 

Simon  Orts  waved  his  hand  toward  Lady  Allonby. 
"  'Twere  only  kindness  to  warn  Mr.  Punshon  there  may 
be  some  disturbance  shortly.  A  lamentation  or  so." 

At  this  Lord  Rokesle  clapped  him  upon  the  shoulder 

35 


(gallantry 

and  heartily  laughed.  "  That's  the  old  Simon — always  on 
the  alert.  Punshon,  no  one  is  to  enter  this  wing  of  the 
castle,  on  any  pretext — no  one,  you  understand.  What 
ever  noises  you  may  hear,  you  will  pay  no  attention. 
Now  go." 

He  went  toward  Lady  Allonby  and  took  her  hand. 
"Come,  Anastasia!"  said  he.  "Hold,  she  has  really 
swooned!  Why,  what  the  devil,  Simon — !" 

Simon  Orts  had  tranquilly  flung  the  gong  into  the  fire. 
"She  will  be  sounding  that  when  she  comes  to,"  said 
Simon  Orts.  "You  don't  want  a  rumpus  fit  to  vex  the 
dead  yonder  in  the  Chapel."  Simon  Orts  stood  before 
the  fire,  turning  the  leaves  of  his  prayer-book,  listening. 
The  outer  door  of  the  corridor  closed.  Then  he  dropped 
the  book  and,  springing  into  the  arm-chair,  wrested  Aluric 
Floyer's  sword  from  its  fastening.  "Tricked,  tricked!" 
said  Simon  Orts.  "You  were  always  a  fool,  Vincent 
Floyer." 

Lord  Rokesle  blinked  at  him,  as  dazzled  by  an  unex 
pected  light.  "  What  d'ye  mean  ?" 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  repeat — you  are  a  fool.  I  did  not 
know  the  place  was  guarded — you  told  me.  I  needed 
privacy ;  by  your  orders  no  one  is  to  enter  here  to-night. 
I  needed  a  sword — you  had  it  hanging  here,  ready  for 
the  first  comer.  O,  beyond  doubt,  you  are  a  fool,  Vin 
cent  Floyer!"  Standing  in  the  arm-chair,  Simon  Orts 
bowed  fantastically,  and  then  leaped  to  the  ground  with 
the  agility  of  an  imp. 

"You  have  tricked  me  neatly,"  Lord  Rokesle  conceded, 
and  his  tone  did  not  lack  a  certain  admiration.  "By 
gad,  I  have  even  given  them  orders  to  pass  you — after 
you  have  murdered  me!  Exceedingly  clever,  Simon — 
but  one  thing  you  overlooked.  You  are  very  far  from 
my  match  at  fencing.  So  I  shall  presently  kill  you. 

36 


Oman's    5f 

And  afterward,  ceremony  or  no  ceremony,  the  woman's 
mine." 

"I  am  not  convinced  of  that,"  the  Vicar  observed. 
"  'Tis  true  I  am  no  swordsman;  but  there  are  behind  my 
sword  forces  superior  to  any  which  skill  might  muster. 
The  sword  of  your  fathers  fights  against  you,  my  Lord — 
against  you  that  are  their  disgrace.  They  loved  honor 
and  truth;  you  betrayed  honor,  you  knew  not  truth. 
They  revered  womanhood;  you  reverence  nothing,  and 
your  life  smirches  your  mother's  memory.  Ah,  believe 
me,  they  all  fight  against  you!  Can  you  not  see  them, 
my  Lord  ? — yonder  at  my  back  ? — old  Aluric  Floyer  and  all 
those  honest  gentlemen,  whose  blood  now  blushes  in  your 
body — ay,  blushes  to  be  confined  in  a  vessel  so  ignoble! 
Their  armament  fights  against  you,  a  host  of  gallant 
phantoms.  And  my  hatred,  too,  fights  against  you — 
the  cur's  bitter  hatred  for  the  mastering  hand  it  dares 
not  bite.  I  dare  now.  You  made  me  your  pander,  you 
slew  my  manhood;  in  return,  body  and  soul,  I  demolish 
you.  Even  my  hatred  for  that  woman  fights  against 
you;  she  robbed  me  of  my  honor — is  it  not  a  tragical 
revenge  to  save  her  honor,  to  hold  it  in  my  hand,  mine,  to 
dispose  of  as  I  elect — and  then  fling  it  to  her  as  a  thing 
contemptible?  Between  you,  you  have  ruined  me;  but 
it  is  Simon's  hour  to-night.  I  shame  you  both,  and  past 
the  reach  of  thought,  for  presently  I  shall  take  your  life 
—in  the  high-tide  of  your  iniquity,  praise  God!  —  and 
presently  I  shall  give  my  life  for  hers.  Ah,  I  am  fey,  my 
Lord !  You  are  a  dead  man,  Vincent  Floyer,  for  the  powers 
of  good  and  the  powers  of  evil  alike  contend  against  you." 

He  spoke  rather  sadly  than  otherwise ;  and  there  was  a 
vague  trouble  in  Lord  Rokesle's  face,  though  he  shook 
his  head  impatiently.  "  You  are  no  better  than  I.  You 
are  the  paltriest  knave  unhanged  in  England." 

37 


(gallantry 

"Great  ends  may  be  attained  by  petty  instruments, 
my  Lord ;  a  filthy  turtle  quenched  the  genius  of  ^Eschylus, 
and  they  were  only  common  soldiers  who  shed  the  blood 
that  redeemed  the  world." 

Lord  Rokesle  pished  at  this.  Yet  he  was  strangely 
unruffled.  He  saluted  with  quietude,  as  equal  to  equal, 
and  the  two  crossed  blades. 

Simon  Orts  fought  clumsily,  but  his  encroachment  was 
unwavering.  From  the  first  he  pressed  his  opponent  with 
a  contained  resolution.  The  Vicar  seemed  a  man  fighting 
in  a  dream — with  a  drugged  obstinacy,  unswerving.  Lord 
Rokesle  had  wounded  him  in  the  arm  but,  Orts  did  not 
seem  aware  of  this.  He  crowded  upon  his  patron.  Now 
there  were  little  beads  of  sweat  on  Lord  Rokesle 's  brow, 
and  his  tongue  protruded  from  his  mouth,  licking  at  it 
ravenously.  Step  by  step  Lord  Rokesle  drew  back ;  there 
was  no  withstanding  this  dumb  fanatic,  who  did  not  know 
when  he  was  wounded,  who  scarcely  parried  attack. 

"  Even  on  earth  you  shall  have  a  taste  of  hell, ' '  said  Simon 
Orts.  "There  is  terror  in  your  eyes,  my  worthy  patron." 

Lord  Rokesle  flung  up  his  arms  as  the  sword  dug  into 
his  breast.  "I  am  afraid!  I  am  afraid!"  he  wailed, 
childishly.  Then  he  coughed,  and  seemed  with  his  strain 
ing  hands  to  push  a  great  weight  from  him  as  the  blood 
frothed  about  his  lips  and  nostrils.  "O  Simon,  I  am 
afraid!  Help  me,  Simon!" 

Old  custom  spoke  there.  Followed  silence,  and  present 
ly  the  empty  body  sprawled  upon  the  floor.  Vincent  Floyer 
had  done  with  it. 

IV 

Simon  Orts  knelt,  abstractedly  wiping  Aluric  Floyer's 
sword  upon  the  corner  of  a  rug.  He  derived  an  odd 

38 


comfort  from  this  manual  employment  that  necessitated 
attention  but  without  demanding  that  it  concentrate  his 
mind ;  it  enabled  him  to  forget  how  solitary  the  place  was, 
how  viciously  his  garments  rustled  when  he  moved;  so 
over  and  over  again  he  cleansed  the  sword,  rehearsing 
meanwhile  the  ensuing  action. 

His  wits  were  by  ordinary  keen,  but  now,  adjusting 
point  by  point,  they  moved  with  a  mechanical  surety 
that  roused  even  in  him  an  incurious  surprise.  It  was 
ludicrously  simple ;  he  saw  the  future  like  a  page  of  clean 
print,  decipherable  at  a  glance. 

Then  a  scraping  of  silks  made  each  heightened  faculty 
wince.  Turning,  he  found  Lady  Allonby  half -erect  upon 
the  settle.  She  stared  about  her  with  a  kind  of  infantile 
wonder;  latterly  her  glance  swept  over  Lord  Rokesle's 
body,  without  to  all  appearance  finding  it  an  object  of 
remarkable  interest.  "Is  he  dead?" 

"Yes,"  said  Simon  Orts;  "get  up!"  His  voice  had  a 
rasp ;  she  might  from  his  tone  have  been  a  refractory  dog. 
But  Lady  Allonby  obeyed  him. 

"We  are  in  a  devil  of  a  mess,"  said  Simon  Orts;  "yet 
I  see  a  way  out  of  it — if  you  can  keep  your  head.  Can 
you?" 

"I  am  past  fear,"  she  said,  dully.  "I  drown,  Simon, 
in  a  sea  of  feathers.  I  can  get  no  foothold,  I  clutch  noth 
ing  that  is  steadfast,  and  I  smother.  I  have  been  like 
this  in  dreams.  I  am  very  tired,  Simon." 

He  took  her  hand,  collectedly  appraising  her  pulse.  He 
put  his  own  hand  upon  her  bared  bosom,  and  noted  the 
stolid  beat  there.  "No,"  said  Simon  Orts,  "you  are  not 
afraid.  Now,  listen:  You  lack  time  to  drown  in  a  sea 
of  feathers.  You  are  upon  Usk,  among  men  who  differ 
from  beasts  by  being  a  thought  more  cruel,  and  from 
devils  by  being  a  little  more  bestial ;  it  is  my  opinion  that 

39 


the  earlier  you  get  away  the  better,  especially  as  the  news 
of  Lord  Rokesle's  death  will  not  tend  to  ameliorate  their 
dispositions.  Punshon  has  orders  to  pass  Simon  Orts. 
Very  well;  put  on  this." 

He  caught  up  his  long  cloak  and  wrapped  it  about  her. 
Lady  Allonby  stood  rigid.  But  immediately  he  frowned 
and  removed  the  garment  from  her  shoulders. 

"That  won't  do.  Your  skirts  are  too  big.  Take  'em 
off." 

Submissively  she  did  so,  and  presently  stood  before  him 
in  her  under-petticoat.  In  contrast  to  the  immaculate 
white  of  it,  the  pink  bodice  assumed  an  odd  tawdriness. 

"You  cut  just  now  a  very  ludicrous  figure,  Anastasia. 
I  dare  assert  that  the  nobleman  who  formerly  inhabited 
yonder  carcass  would  still  be  its  tenant  if  he  had  known 
how  greatly  the  beauty  he  went  mad  for  was  beholden  to 
the  haberdasher  and  the  mantua-maker,  and  quite  possibly 
the  chemist.  Persicos  odi,  Anastasia;  'tis  a  humiliating 
reflection  that  the  hair  of  a  dead  woman  artfully  disposed 
about  a  living  head  should  have  the  power  to  set  men 
squabbling,  and  murder  be  at  times  engendered  in  a  paint- 
pot.  However,  wrap  yourself  in  the  cloak.  Now  turn 
up  the  collar — so.  Now  pull  down  the  hatbrim.  Urn — 
a — pretty  well.  Chance  favors  us  unblushingly.  You 
may  thank  your  stars  it  is  a  rainy  night  and  that  I  am  a 
little  man.  You  detest  little  men,  don't  you?  Yes,  I 
remember."  Simon  Orts  now  gave  his  orders,  emphasiz 
ing  each  with  a  not  over-clean  forefinger.  "  When  I  open 
this  door  you  will  go  out  into  the  corridor.  Punshon  or 
one  of  the  others  will  be  on  guard  at  the  farther  end. 
Pay  no  attention  to  him.  There  is  only  one  light — on 
the  left.  Keep  to  the  right  in  the  shadow.  Stagger  as  you 
go ;  if  you  can  manage  a  hiccough,  the  imitation  will  be  all 
the  more  lifelike.  Punshon  will  expect  something  of  the 

40 


sort,  and  he  will  not  trouble  you,  for  he  knows  that  when 
I  am  fuddled  I  am  quarrelsome.  Tis  a  diverting  world, 
Anastasia,  wherein,  you  now  perceive,  habitual  drunken 
ness  and  an  unbridled  temper  may  sometimes  prove 
commendable — as  to-night,  when  they  rescue  persecuted 
innocence!"  Here  Simon  Orts  gave  an  unpleasant  laugh. 

"  But  I  do  not  understand—  "  she  began. 

"You  understand  very  little  except  coquetry  and  the 
proper  disposition  of  a  ruffle.  Yet  this  is  simple.  My 
horse  is  tied  at  the  postern.  Mount — astride,  mind. 
You  know  the  way  to  the  Vicarage,  so  does  the  horse; 
you  will  find  my  brother  there.  Tell  Frank  what  has 
happened.  Tell  him  to  row  you  to  the  mainland ;  tell  him 
to  conduct  you  to  Colonel  Denstroude's.  Then  you  must 
shift  for  yourself;  but  Denstroude  is  a  gentleman,  and 
Denstroude  would  protect  Beelzebub  if  he  came  to  him 
a  fugitive  from  Vincent  Floyer.  Now  do  you  under 
stand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  and  seated  herself  before 
the  fire — "yes,  I  understand.  I  am  to  slip  away  in  the 
darkness  and  leave  you  here  to  answer  for  Lord  Rokesle's 
death — to  those  devils.  La,  do  you  really  think  me  as 
base  as  that?" 

Simon  Orts  caught  his  breath.  Now  he  was  kneeling  at 
her  side.  The  black  cloak  enveloped  her  from  head  to 
foot,  and  the  turned -up  collar  screened  her  sunny  hair; 
in  the  shadow  of  the  broad  hatbrim  he  could  see  only  her 
eyes,  resplendent  and  defiant,  and  in  them  the  reflection 
of  the  vaulting  flames.  "You  would  stay,  Anastasia?" 

"I  will  not  purchase  my  life  at  the  cost  of  yours.  I 
will  owe  you  nothing,  Simon  Orts." 

The  Vicar  chuckled.  "  Nor  appeared  Less  than  arch 
angel  ruined,"  he  said.  "No,  faith,  not  a  whit  less!  We 
are  much  of  a  piece,  Anastasia.  Do  you  know — if  affairs 

41 


(gallantry 

had  fallen  out  differently— I  think  I  might  have  been  a 
man  and  you  a  woman?  As  it  is — "  Kneeling  still,  his 
glance  devoured  her.  "Yes,  you  would  stay.  And  you 
comprehend  what  staying  signifies.  Tis  pride,  your  dam 
nable  pride,  that  moves  you — but  I  rejoice,  for  it  proves 
you  a  brave  woman.  Courage,  at  least,  you  possess,  and 
this  is  the  first  virtue  I  have  discovered  in  you  for  a  long 
while.  However,  there  is  no  necessity  for  your  staying. 
The  men  of  Usk  will  not  hurt  Simon  Orts." 

A  jewelled  hand  broke  from  the  cloak  folds  as  though 
to  grasp  at  the  sheltered  life  of  yesterday.  Lady  Allonby 
had  found  the  world  a  pleasant  place  since  her  widow 
hood.  "  They  will  not  kill  you  ?  You  swear  it,  Simon  ?" 

"Why,  the  man  was  their  tyrant.  They  obeyed  him 
— yes,  through  fear.  They  will  hail  me  as  their  deliv 
erer,  Anastasia.  But  if  they  found  a  woman  here  —  a 
woman  not  ill-looking — "  Simon  Orts  snapped  his  fingers. 
"  Faith,  I  leave  you  to  conjecture,"  said  he. 

They  had  both  risen,  he  smiling,  the  woman  with  a 
turbulence  of  hope  and  terror  astir  in  her  breast.  "  Swear 
to  it,  Simon!" 

"  Anastasia,  were  affairs  as  you  suppose  them,  I  would 
have  a  curt  while  to  live.  As  it  is,  in  reality,  I  anticipate 
for  to-morrow  not  death,  but  a  crown  of  laurels — yes, 
and  unlimited  gin.  Were  affairs  as  you  suppose  them,  I 
would  stand  now  at  the  threshold  of  eternity.  And  I 
swear  to  you,  upon  my  soul's  salvation,  that  I  am  safe. 
They  will  not  harm  me." 

"No,  you  would  not  dare  to  lie  in  the  moment  of 
death,"  she  said,  after  a  considerable  pause.  "I  believe 
you.  I  will  go.  Good-bye,  Simon."  Lady  Allonby  went 
toward  the  door  opening  into  the  corridor,  but  turned 
there  and  came  back  to  him.  "I  shall  never  see  you 
again.  I  do  not  love  you.  La,  I  think  that  I  rather  hate 

42 


you  than  otherwise,  for  you  remind  me  of  things  I  would 
willingly  forget.  But,  O  Simon,  Simon!  I  wish  we  had 
gone  to  live  in  that  little  cottage  we  planned,  and  quar 
relled  over,  and  never  built!  I  think  we  would  have 
been  happy." 

Simon  Orts  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "  Yes,"  said  he, 
"we  would  have  been  happy.  I  would  have  been  by  this 
a  man  doing  a  man's  work  in  the  world,  and  you  a  matron, 
grizzling,  perhaps,  but  rich  in  content,  and  in  love  opulent. 
As  it  is,  you  have  your  flatterers,  your  gossip,  and  your 
cards,  and  I  have  my  gin.  Good-bye,  Anastasia." 

"Simon,  why  have  you  done — this?" 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  flung  out  his  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  impotence.  "I  dare  confess  now  that  which 
even  to  myself  I  have  never  dared  confess.  I  love  you. 
I  have  loved  you  all  my  life." 

"I  am  sorry.     I  am  not  worthy,  Simon." 

"  No ;  you  are  immeasurably  far  from  worthy.  But  one 
does  not  justify  love  by  a  mathematical  demonstration. 
I  love  you.  Good-bye,  Anastasia." 


Holding  the  door  ajar,  the  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  heard 
the  horse's  hoofs  slap  their  leisurely  way  down  the  hillside. 
Presently  the  sound  died  and  he  turned  back  into  the 
hall. 

"A  brave  woman,  that!  O,  a  trifling,  shallow-hearted 
jilt,  but  a  brave  one! 

11 1  had  to  lie  to  her.  She  would  have  stayed  else.  And 
perhaps  it  is  true  that,  in  reality,  I  have  loved  her  all  my 
life — or  in  any  event,  have  hankered  after  the  pink-and- 
white  flesh  of  her  as  any  gentleman  might.  Pschutt!  a 

43 


(gallantry 

pox  on  all  lechery  says  the  dying  man, — since  it  is  now 
necessary  to  put  the  woman  out  of  your  mind,  Simon 
Orts — yes,  after  all  these  years,  to  put  her  quite  out  of 
your  mind.  Faith,  she  might  wheedle  me  now  to  her 
heart's  content,  and  my  pulse  would  never  budge;  for  I 
must  devote  what  trivial  time  there  is  to  hoping  they 
will  kill  me  quickly.  He  was  their  god,  that  man!" 

Simon  Orts  went  toward  the  dead  body,  looking  down 
into  the  distorted  face  unflinchingly.  "  And  I,  too,  loved 
him.  Yes,  such  as  he  was,  he  was  the  only  friend  I  ever 
had.  And  I  think  he  liked  me,"  Simon  Orts  said  aloud, 
with  a  touch  of  shy  pride.  "Yes,  and  you  trusted  me, 
didn't  you,  Vincent?  Wait  for  me,  then,  my  Lord — I 
shall  not  be  long.  And  now  I'll  serve  you  faithfully.  I 
had  to  play  the  man's  part,  you  know — you  mustn't 
grudge  old  Simon  his  one  hour  of  manhood.  You  wouldn't, 
I  think.  And  in  any  event  I  shall  be  with  you  presently, 
and  you  can  cuff  me  if  you  like — just  as  you  used  to  do." 

He  covered  the  dead  face  with  his  handkerchief,  but 
in  the  instant  he  drew  it  away.  "No,  not  this  coarse 
cambric.  You  were  too  much  of  a  fop,  Vincent.  I  will 
use  yours — the  finest  linen,  my  Lord.  You  see  old  Simon 
knows  your  tastes." 

He  drew  himself  erect  exultantly. 

"They  will  come  at  dawn  to  kill  me;  but  I  have  had 
my  hour.  God,  the  man  I  might  have  been!  And  now 
—well,  perhaps  He  would  not  be  offended  if  I  said  a  bit 
of  a  prayer  for  Vincent." 

So  the  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  knelt  beside  the  flesh  that 
had  been  Lord  Rokesle,  and  there  they  found  him  in  the 


at   HHaritttmas 

-4s  Played  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  April  I,  1750 

"He  to  love  an  altar  built 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves; 

With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire; 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize" 


MR.  ERWYN,  a  gentleman  of  the  town,  ceremonious  and  a 
coxcomb,  but  a  man  of  honor. 

LADY  ALLONBY,  a  woman  of  fashion,  and  widow  to  Lord 
Stephen  Allonby. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  daughter  to  Lord  Stephen  by  a  former  mar 
riage,  of  a  considerable  fortune  in  her  own  hands. 

FOOTMEN  to  Lady  Allonby;  and  in  the  Proem  FRANCIS 
ORTS,  commonly  known  as  FRANCIS  VANRINGHAM,  a 
dissolute  play-actor. 

SCENE 
A  drawing-room  in  Lady  Allonby 's  villa  at  Tunbridge  Wells. 


at   iWarttttmaa 

PROEM:— To  be  Filed  for  Reference  Hereafter 

(ADY  ALLONB Y  had  followed  the  Vicar's 
instruction  with  entire  abandonment,  so 
that  midnight  found  her  upon  the  pier 
of  Bishops  Onslow,  Colonel  Denstroude's 
big  and  dilapidated  country  -  residence. 
Frank  Orts  had  assisted  her  from  the  row- 
boat  without  speaking ;  indeed,  he  had  uttered  scarcely  a 
word,  save  to  issue  some  necessary  direction,  since  the 
woman  first  came  upon  him  at  the  Vicarage,  and  made 
known  to  him  the  night's  events.  Now  he  composedly 
stepped  back  into  the  boat. 

" You've  only  to  go  forward,"  said  Frank  Orts.  "I 
regret  that  for  my  own  part  I'm  no  longer  an  acceptable 
visitor  here,  since  the  Colonel  and  I  fought  last  summer 
over  one  Molly  Yates.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  put  up  your 
purse,  my  Lady."  And  the  man's  voice,  she  noted,  with 
a  twinge  of  memory,  somehow,  was  observably  rich  and 
sweet,  for  all  its  undercurrent  of  contempt,  and  there  was 
that  in  its  cadences  which  was  to  Lady  Allonby  quite 
curiously  familiar. 

"Then  I  can  but  render  you  my  heartfelt  thanks,"  she 
now  began,  "and  incessantly  remember  you  in  my  daily 
prayers,  Mr.  Orts,  for  the  two  gallant  men  who  have  this 
night  saved  a  woman  from  great  misery.  Yet  I  think 
that  somewhere  we  two  have  met  before  this." 
4  47 


(gallantry 

"Ay,"  he  responded,  "you  have  squandered  many  a 
shilling  on  me  here  in  England,  where  people  are  suffi 
ciently  misguided  to  rank  Francis  Vanringham  among 
the  endurable  actors.  On  Usk,  you  understand,  I'm  still 
Frank  Orts,  just  as  I  was  christened;  but  elsewhere  the 
name  of  Vanringham  was  long  ago  esteemed  more  apt  to 
embellish  and  adorn  the  bill  of  a  heroic  play.  Ay,  you've 
been  pleased  to  applaud  my  grimaces,  more  than  once; 
your  mother-in-law,  indeed,  the  revered  Marchioness- 
Dowager  of  Falmouth,  is  among  my  staunchest  patrons." 

"Heavens!  then  we  shall  again  see  one  another  at 
Tunbridge!"  said  Lady  Allonby,  who  was  recovering  her 
spirits;  "and  I  shall  have  a  Heaven-sent  opportunity  to 
confirm  my  protestations  that  I  am  not  ungrateful.  Mr. 
Vanringham,  I  explicitly  command  you  to  open  in  The 
Orphan,  since  as  Castalio  in  that  piece  you  are  the  most 
elegant  and  moving  thing  in  the  universal  world."  1 

"Your  command  shall  be  obeyed,"  said  the  actor. 
"And  meantime,  my  Lady,  I  bid  you  an  au  revoir,  with 
many  millions  of  regrets  for  the  inconveniences  to  which 
you've  been  subjected  this  evening.  Oho,  we  are  la 
mentably  rustic  hereabout." 

And  afterward  as  he  rowed  through  the  dark  the  man 
gave  a  grunt  of  dissatisfaction. 

"  I  was  too  abrupt  with  her.  I  suppose  the  impendent 
butchery  of  Brother  Simon  yonder  had  vexed  me.  These 
natural  instincts  are  damnably  inconvenient,  —  and  ex 
pensive,  at  times,  Mr.  Vanringham  —  beside  being  abso 
lutely  ruinous  to  one's  sense  of  humor,  Mr.  Vanringham. 


was  the  opinion  of  others  as  well.  Thorsby  (Roscius  Angli- 
canus)  says,  "Mr.  Vanringham  was  good  in  tragedy,  as  well  as  in 
comedy,  especially  as  Castalio  in  Otway's  Orphan,  and  the  more  fa 
mous  Garrick  came,  in  that  part,  far  short  of  him."  Vanringham  was 
also  noted  for  his  Valentine  in  Love  for  Love  and  for  his  Beaugard  in 
The  Soldier's  Fortune. 

48 


Hart?    at   4Karttttmaii 

Why,  to  think  that  she  alone  should  go  scot-free!  and  of 
her  ordering  a  stage-box  within  the  hour  of  two  men's  de 
struction  on  her  account!  Upon  reflection,  I  admire  the 
woman  to  the  very  tips  of  my  toes.  Eh,  well!  I  trust 
to  have  need  of  her  gratitude  before  the  month  is  up." 


Since  Colonel  Denstroude  proved  a  profane  and  dis 
solute  and  helpful  person,  Lady  Allonby  was  shortly  re 
established  in  her  villa  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  on  the  Sussex 
side,  where  she  had  resolved  to  find  a  breathing-space 
prior  to  the  full  season  in  London.  And  thereupon  she 
put  all  thoughts  of  Usk  quite  out  of  her  mind :  there  was 
nothing  ungenerous  in  the  woman,  you  must  understand, 
not  a  tinge  of  spite  or  meanness,  and  she  was  perhaps 
the  most  prodigal  alms-giver  in  England,  since  it  made 
her  profoundly  unhappy  to  have  any  unhappiness  within 
her  view;  and  for  the  rest,  she  appreciated  the  pleasant 
passages  of  life,  and  sedulously  avoided  anything  that 
was  disagreeable. 

Mr.  Erwyn  Lady  Allonby  was  far  from  cataloguing 
under  that  head.  Tunbridge  was  almost  empty,  in  the 
first  place;  besides,  he  had  been  for  years,  at  the  very 
least,  a  major-general  in  Fashion's  army,  and  was  by  this 
as  much  a  connoisseur  of  the  more  trivial  elegancies  as  she 
herself  could  ever  hope  to  be:  and  accordingly,  she  now 
hung  upon  his  words  with  an  odd  wistfulness  in  her 
handsome  if  shallow  countenance. 

Mr.  Erwyn  sighed  as  he  ended  his  recital — half  foi  pity 
of  the  misguided  folk  who  had  afforded  Tunbridge  its 
latest  scandal,  half  for  relief  that,  in  spite  of  many  diffi 
culties,  the  story  had  been  clearly  set  forth  in  a  discreet 

49 


(gallantry 

language  which  veiled,  if  it  did  not  quite  conceal,  the 
more  unsavory  details. 

"And  so,"  said  he,  "poor  Harry  is  run  through  the 
lungs,  and  Mrs.  Anstruther  is  to  be  allowed  a  separate 
maintenance." 

"  Tis  shocking!"  said  Lady  Allonby. 

"  Tis  incredible,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "to  my  mind,  at 
least,  that  the  bonds  of  matrimony  should  be  slipped  thus 
lightly.  But  the  age  is  somewhat  lax  and  the  world  now 
views  with  complaisance  the  mad  antics  of  half-grown 
lads  and  wenches  who  trip  toward  the  altar  as  carelessly 
as  to  a  country-dance." 

Lady  Allonby  stirred  her  tea  and  said  nothing.  Noto 
riously  her  marriage  had  been  unhappy;  and  her  two 
years  of  widowhood  (dating  from  the  unlamented 
seizure,  brought  on  by  an  inherited  tendency  to  apoplexy 
and  French  brandy,  which  carried  off  Lord  Stephen 
Allonby,  of  Allonby  Shaw)  had  never,  to  all  appearances, 
tempered  her  distrust  of  the  matrimonial  state.  Cer 
tain  it  was  that  she  had  refused  many  advantageous 
offers  during  this  period,  for  her  jointure  was  consider 
able  and,  though  in  candid  moments  she  confessed  to 
thirty-three,  her  dearest  friends  could  not  question 
Lady  Allonby 's  good  looks.  The  exculpation  was  that 
she  desired  to  devote  herself  to  her  step -daughter,  but,  as 
gossip  had  it  at  Tunbridge,  she  was  soon  to  be  deprived 
of  this  subterfuge;  for  Miss  Allonby  had  reached  her 
twentieth  year,  and  the  two  ladies  were  rarely  seen  in 
public  save  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Erwyn,  who,  it  was 
generally  conceded,  stood  high  in  their  favor  and  was  de 
sirous  of  mounting  yet  further. 

For  these  reasons  Lady  Allonby  heard  with  interest 
his  feeling  allusion  to  the  laxity  of  the  age,  and  through 
a  moment  pondered  thereon,  not  doubting  he  had  lin- 

50 


at 

gered,  after  the  departure  of  her  other  guests,  in  order 
to  make  the  disclosure  which  she  had  for  many  months 
expected. 

"I  had  not  thought,"  said  she,  at  length,  "that  you, 
of  all  men,  would  ever  cast  a  serious  eye  toward  mar 
riage.  Indeed,  Mr.  Erwyn,  you  have  loved  women  so 
long  that  I  must  dispute  your  ability  to  love  a  wom 
an — and  your  amours  have  been  a  byword  these  twenty 
years." 

"Dear  lady,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "surely  you  would  not 
confound  amour  with  love?  Believe  me,  the  translation 
is  inadequate.  Amour  is  but  the  summer  wave  that  lifts 
and  glitters  and  laughs  in  the  sunlight,  and  within  the 
instant  disappears;  but  love  is  the  unfathomed  eternal 
sea  itself.  Or — to  shift  the  metaphor — Amour  is  a  gen 
eral  under  whom  youth  must  serve  for  a  little,  and  it  is 
well  to  fight  under  his  colors,  for  it  is  against  Ennui  that 
he  marshals  his  forces.  Tis  a  resplendent  conflict,  and 
young  blood  cannot  but  stir  and  exult  as  paradoxes, 
marching  and  countermarching  at  the  command  of  their 
gay  generalissimo,  make  way  for  one  another  in  iridescent 
squadrons,  while  through  the  steady  musketry  of  epigram 
one  hears  the  clash  of  contending  repartees,  or  the  cry 
of  a  wailing  sonnet.  But  this  lord  of  laughter  may  be 
served  by  the  young  alone,  and  his  veteran,  maimed  and 
grown  old  in  service,  is  perforce  contented  to  relinquish 
all  the  glory  and  adventure  of  such  colorful  campaigns  for 
some  quiet  inglenook,  where,  with  love  to  make  a  third, 
he  prattles  of  past  days  and  deeds  with  one  that  goes 
hand-in-hand  with  him  toward  the  tomb." 

Lady  Allonby  accorded  this  conceit  the  tribute  of  a 
sigh;  then  glanced  in  the  direction  of  four  impassive 
footmen  to  make  sure  they  were  out  of  earshot. 

"  And  so—  ?"  said  she. 

51 


(Salianirji 

"Split  me!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "  I  thought  you  had  noted 
it  long  ago." 

"Indeed,"  she  observed,  reflectively,  "I  suppose  it  is 
quite  time." 

"I  am  not,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "in  the  heyday  of  my 
youth,  I  grant  you;  but  I  am  not  for  that  reason  neces 
sarily  unmoved  by  the  attractions  of  an  advantageous 
person,  a  fine  sensibility  and  all  the  graces." 

He  sipped  his  tea  with  an  air  of  partial  resentment, 
and  Lady  Allonby,  remembering  the  disparity  of  age 
which  existed  between  Mr.  Erwyn  and  her  step-daughter, 
felt  that  she  had  awkwardly  blundered  upon  forbidden 
ground  and  awaited  with  contrition  the  proposal  she  did 
not  doubt  he  was  about  to  broach  to  her,  as  the  head  of 
the  family. 

"Who  is  she?"  said  Lady  Allonby. 

"An  angel,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  fencing. 

"Beware,"  Lady  Allonby  exhorted,  "lest  she  prove  a 
recording  angel ;  a  wife  who  takes  too  deep  an  interest  in 
your  movements  will  scarcely  suit  you." 

"Yet  I  trust,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  smiling,  "that  on 
Saturdays  she  will  allow  me  the  customary  half -holiday." 

Lady  Allonby,  rebuffed,  sought  consolation  among  the 
conserves. 

"And  as  postscript,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  do  not  desire 
a  wife  who  will  take  her  morning  chocolate  with  me  and 
sup  with  Heaven  knows  whom.  I  have  seen  too  much  of 
mariage  a  la  mode,  and  I  come  to  her,  if  not  with  the 
transports  of  an  Amadis,  at  least  with  an  entire  affection 
and  respect." 

"Then,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "you  love  her?" 

"Very  tenderly,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn;  "and,  indeed,  I 
would,  for  her  sake,  that  the  errors  of  my  past  life  were 
not  so  numerous,  nor  the  frailty  of  my  aspiring  resolu- 

52 


ICoti?   at  4Harttnma0 

tions  rendered  apparent — ah,  so  many  times! — to  a  gap 
ing  and  censorious  world.  For,  as  you  are  aware,  I 
cannot  offer  her  an  untried  heart;  'tis  somewhat  worn 
by  many  barterings.  But  I  know  that  it  beats  with 
accentuation  in  her  presence,  and  when  I  come  to  her 
some  day  and  clasp  her  in  my  arms,  as  I  mean  to  do,  I 
trust  that  her  lips  may  not  turn  away  from  mine  and  that 
she  may  be  more  glad  because  I  am  so  near  and  that  her 
heart  may  sound  an  echoing  chime.  For,  with  a  great  and 
troubled  adoration,  I  love  her  as  I  have  loved  no  other 
woman;  and  this  much,  I  submit,  you  cannot  doubt." 

"I?"  said  Lady  Allonby,  with  extreme  innocence. 
"La,  how  should  I  know?" 

"Unless  you  are  blind,"  Mr.  Erwyn  observed — "and  I 
apprehend  those  spacious  eyes  to  be  more  keen  than  the 
tongue  of  a  dowager — you  must  have  seen  o'  late  that  I 
have  presumed  to  hope — to  think — that  she  whom  I  love 
so  tenderly  might  deign  to  be  the  affectionate,  the  conde 
scending  friend  who  would  assist  me  to  retrieve  the  indis 
cretions  of  my  youth — 

The  confusion  of  his  utterance,  which  went  far  toward 
attesting  the  reality  of  his  emotion,  had  in  reality  moved 
Lady  Allonby.  "It  is  true,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  not 
been  wholly  blind — " 

"  Anastasia,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  with  feeling,  "is  not  our 
friendship  of  an  age  to  justify  sincerity?" 

And  Lady  Allonby  was  stirred  to  dispel  his  evident  em 
barrassment.  "  Indeed,"  she  confessed,  "  I  have  not  been 
unreasonably  blind — and  I  do  not  object — and  I  do  not 
believe  that  Dorothy  will  prove  obdurate." 

"You  render  me  the  happiest  of  men,"  Mr.  Erwyn 
stated,  rapturously.  More  lately  he  asked:  "You  have, 
then,  already  discussed  this  matter  with  Miss  Allonby?" 

"Not  precisely,"  said  she,  laughing;  "since  I  had 

53 


(SaUattirg 

thought  it  apparent  to  the  most  timid  lover  that  the  first 
announcement  came  with  best  grace  from  him." 

"Is  the  consent  of  Miss  Allonby  absolutely  necessary?" 
said  Mr.  Erwyn,  laughing  likewise.  "  O'  my  conscience, 
then,  I  shall  be  a  veritable  Demosthenes;  and  in  common 
decency  she  will  consent." 

"Your  conceit,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "is  appalling." 

"  Tis  beyond  conception,"  Mr.  Erwyn  admitted;  "and 
I  propose  to  try  marriage  as  a  remedy.  I  have  heard  it 
is  an  infallible  one." 

"Not  always,"  she  lightly  began,  "since  in  many 
cases— 

"It  is  true,"  he  conceded,  "that  you  have  been  mar 
ried—" 

"Impertinent!"  cried  Lady  Allonby. 

"Nay,  pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn;  "but,  indeed,  I 
find  that  perfect  felicity  is  more  potent  than  wine.  Were 
it  not  for  the  footmen  there,"  said  he,  joyously,  "  I  do  not 
know  to  what  lengths  I  might  go." 

"In  that  event,"  Lady  Allonby  decided,  "I  shall  fetch 
Dorothy,  that  the  crown  may  be  set  upon  your  well- 
being.  And  previously  I  will  dismiss  the  footmen." 
She  did  so  with  a  sign. 

"  Believe  me,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "  'tis  what  I  have  long 
wished  for.  And  when  Miss  Allonby  honors  me  with  her 
attention  I  shall,  since  my  life's  happiness  depends  upon 
the  issue,  plead  with  all  the  eloquence  of  a  starveling 
barrister,  big  with  the  import  of  his  first  case.  May  I, 
indeed,  rest  assured  that  any  triumph  over  her  possible 
objections  may  be  viewed  with  not  unfavorable  eyes?" 

"O  sir,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "believe  me,  there  is 
nothing  I  more  earnestly  desire  than  that  you  may 
obtain  all  which  is  necessary  for  your  welfare — and  even 
though — I  will  fetch  Dorothy." 

54 


at  UJ 

"Hexcuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  largest  footman  but  one, 
'ave  you  done  with  your  cup?" 


II 

Mr.  Erwyn,  left  alone,  smiled  at  his  own  reflection  in 
the  mirror;  rearranged  his  ruffles  with  a  deft  and  shapely 
hand ;  consulted  his  watch ;  seated  himself  and  hummed 
a  merry  air,  in  meditative  wise ;  and  was  in  such  posture 
when  the  bright  hangings  that  shielded  the  hall -door 
quivered  and  broke  into  tumultuous  waves  and  yielded 
up  Miss  Dorothy  Allonby. 

Being  an  heiress,  Miss  Allonby  was  by  an  ancient  cus 
tom  bre vetted  a  great  beauty,  and  it  is  equitable  to  add 
that  Menippus  himself  would  not  have  refused,  point- 
blank,  to  countersign  the  commission.  They  said  of 
Dorothy  Allonby  that  her  eyes  were  as  large  as  her  bank 
account,  and  nearly  as  formidable  as  her  tongue,  and  it 
is  undeniable  that  on  provocation  there  was  in  her  speech 
a  tang  of  acidity,  such  (let  us  say)  as  renders  a  salad  none 
the  less  palatable.  In  a  word,  Miss  Allonby  pitied  the 
limitations  of  masculine  humanity  more  readily  than  its 
amorous  pangs,  and  cuddled  her  women  friends  as  she 
did  kittens,  with  a  wary  and  candid  apprehension  of 
their  power  to  scratch;  and  decision  was  her  key-note; 
continually  she  knew  to  the  quarter-width  of  a  cobweb 
what  she  wanted,  and  invariably  she  got  it. 

Her  appearance  was  of  the  same  type  as  her  step 
mother's,1  yet  in  each  detail  distinguished  by  some  further 

1  Lord  Stephen  Allonby  married  in  1729  Lady  Dorothy  Heleigh, 
daughter  to  the  eleventh  Earl  of  Brudenel,  and  by  her  had  issue  two 
children;  and  second,  in  1736,  Anastasia  Heleigh,  granddaughter  to 
the  tenth  Earl,  and,  in  consequence,  cousin  to  Lord  Stephen's  first  wife. 

55 


nuance  of  refinement:  to  the  glance  they  were  oddly 
alike,  but  upon  consideration  it  was  as  though  Rubens  and 
Frangonard  had  painted  from  one  model.  Folk  said  that 
this  explained  Lord  Stephen's  infatuation  for  the  older 
woman,  since  Miss  Allonby  was  in  exterior  her  own 
mother's  twin ;  in  any  event,  Miss  Allonby  was  of  the  two 
by  much  the  tinier,  and  her  lips  were  the  more  generously 
proportioned.  There  was  the  final  difference; — that  the 
mouth  of  Miss  Allonby  hinted  a  larger  capability  for 
emotion,  and  also  for  expressing  it — in  the  very  mildest 
terms — with  efficacy. 

Such  was  the  person  who,  with  a  habitual  emphasis 
which  dowagers  found  hoydenish  and  all  young  men 
adorable,  demanded  without  prelude : 

"Heavens!  What  can  it  be,  Mr.  Erwyn,  that  has  cast 
mother  into  this  unprecedented  state  of  excitement?" 

"What,  indeed?"  said  he,  and  bowed  above  her  prof 
fered  hand. 

"For  like  a  hurricane,  she  burst  into  my  room  and 
cried,  'Mr.  Erwyn  has  something  of  importance  to  de 
clare  to  you — why  did  you  put  on  that  gown  ? — bless  you, 
my  child — '  all  in  one  eager  breath ;  then  kissed  me,  and 
powdered  my  nose,  and  despatched  me  to  you  without 
any  explanation.  And  why?"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"Why,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"It  is  very  annoying,"  said  she,  decisively. 

"Sending  you  to  me?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  a  magnitude 
of  reproach  in  his  voice. 

"That,"  said  Miss  Allonby,  "I  can  pardon — and  easily. 
But  I  dislike  all  mysteries,  and  being  termed  a  child, 
and—" 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

—and  being  powdered  on  the  nose,"  said  Miss  Allon 
by,  with  firmness.     Then  she  went  to  the  mirror,  and, 

56 


at   iJIa 

standing  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  peered  anxiously  into  its 
depths.  She  rubbed  her  nose,  as  in  disapproval,  and 
frowned,  perhaps  involuntarily  pursing  up  her  lips — which 
Mr.  Erwyn  intently  regarded  and  wandered  to  the  ex 
treme  end  of  the  apartment,  where  he  evinced  a  sudden 
interest  in  bric-a-brac. 

"Is  there  any  powder  on  my  nose?"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"I  fail  to  perceive  any,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Come  closer,"  said  she. 

"  I  dare  not,"  said  he. 

Miss  Allonby  wheeled  about.  "Fie!"  she  cried;  "one 
who  has  served  against  the  French,1  and  afraid  of  pow 
der!" 

"  It  is  not,"  Mr.  Erwyn  stated,  uncertainly,  "  the  powder 
that  I  fear." 

"What,  then?"  said  she,  in  sinking  to  the  divan  beside 
the  disordered  tea-table. 

"There  are  two  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "and  they 
are  so  red— 

"  Nonsense!"  cried  Miss  Allonby,  with  heightened  color. 

"  Tis  best  to  avoid  temptation,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn, 
virtuously. 

"Undoubtedly,"  she  assented,  "it  is  best  to  avoid 
having  your  ears  boxed." 

Mr.  Erwyn  sighed  as  in  the  relinquishment  of  an  em- 
pery.  Miss  Allonby  moved  to  the  farther  end  of  the  divan. 

"What  was  it,"  she  demanded,  "that  you  had  to  tell 
me?" 

"  'Tis  a  matter  of  some  importance—  "  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Heavens!"  said  Miss  Allonby,  and  absent-mindedly 

1  This  was  not  absolutely  so.  Mr.  Erwyn  had,  however,  in  an  out 
burst  of  patriotism,  embarked,  as  a  sort  of  cabin  passenger,  with  his 
friend  Sir  John  Morris,  and  possessed  in  consequence  some  claim  to 
share  such  honor  as  was  won  by  the  glorious  fiasco  of  Dungeness. 

57 


(gallantry 

drew  aside  her  skirts;    "one  would  think  you  about  to 
make  a  declaration." 

Mr.  Erwyn  sat  down  beside  her.  "  I  have  been  known," 
said  he,  "to  do  such  things." 

The  divan  was  strewn  with  cushions  in  the  Oriental 
fashion.  Miss  Allonby,  with  some  adroitness,  slipped 
one  of  them  between  her  person  and  the  locality  of  her 
neighbor.  "O!"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  peering  over  the  barrier;  "  I  admit  that 
I  am  even  now  shuddering  upon  the  verge  of  matri 
mony." 

"Indeed!"  she  marvelled,  secure  in  her  fortress. 
"Have  you  selected  an  accomplice?" 

"Split  me,  yes!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"  And  have  I  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance?"  said  Miss 
Allonby. 

"Provoking!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn;  "no  woman  knows  her 
better." 

Miss  Allonby  smiled.  "  Dear  Mr.  Erwyn,"  she  stated, 
"this  is  a  disclosure  I  have  looked  for  these  six  months." 

"Split  me!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Heavens,  yes!"  said  she.  "You  have  been  a  rather 
dilatory  lover— 

"I  am  inexpressibly  grieved,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "that  I 
should  have  kept  you  waiting — " 

—and  in  fact,"  said  she,  "  I  had  frequently  thought  of 
reproaching  you  for  your  tardiness — " 

"Nay,  in  that  case,"  said  Mr.   Erwyn,   "the  matter 
could,  no  doubt,  have  been  more  expeditiously  arranged." 
—since  your  intentions  have  been  quite  apparent." 

Mr.  Erwyn  removed  the  cushion.  "  You  do  not,  then, 
disapprove?"  said  he. 

"Indeed,  no,"  said  Miss  Allonby;  "I  think  you  will 
make  an  excellent  step-father." 

58 


at 

The  cushion  fell  to  the  floor.  Mr.  Erwyn  replaced  it 
and  smiled. 

"And  so/'  Miss  Allonby  continued,  " mother,  believing 
me  in  ignorance,  has  deputed  you  to  inform  me  of  this 
most  transparent  secret?  How  strange  is  the  blindness 
of  lovers!  But  I  suppose,"  sighed  Miss  Allonby,  "we  are 
all  much  alike." 

"We?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  softly. 

"I  meant — "  said  Miss  Allonby,  flushing  somewhat. 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn.  His  voice  sank  to  a  pleading 
cadence.  "Dear  child,  am  I  not  worthy  of  trust?" 

There  was  a  microscopic  pause. 

"I  am  going  to  the  Pantiles  this  afternoon,"  declared 
Miss  Allonby,  at  length,  "to  feed  the  swans." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  and  with  comprehension; 
"surely,  he,  too,  is  rather  tardy." 

"O,"  said  she,  "then  you  know?" 

"I  know,"  he  announced,  "that  there  is  a  tasteful  and 
secluded  summer-house  near  the  Fountain  of  Neptune." 

"I  was  never  allowed,"  said  Miss  Allonby,  unconvinc- 
ingly,  "  to  sit  in  secluded  summer-houses  with — with  any 
one ;  and,  besides,  the  gardeners  keep  their  lunch-baskets 
there — under  the  biggest  bench." 

Mr.  Erwyn  beamed  upon  her  paternally.  "  I  was  not, 
till  this,  aware,"  said  he,  "that  Captain  Audaine  was  so 
much  interested  in  ornithology.  Yet,  by  a  strain  of  the 
imagination,  let  us  suppose— 

"O,  but  he  will,"  said  Miss  Allonby,  with  confidence; 
then  she  reflectively  added:  "I  shall  be  greatly  and  pain 
fully  surprised  by  his  declaration,  for,  after  all,  it  will  only 
be  his  seventh." 

"Doubtless,"  Mr.  Erwyn  considered,  "your  astonish 
ment  will  be  extreme." 

"  And  I  shall  be  deeply  grieved  that  he  has  so  utterlymis- 

59 


(Sallattirg 

understood  my  friendly  interest  in  his  welfare ;  and  I  shall 
be  highly  indignant  after  he  has — in  effect,  after  he  has— 

"But  not  until  afterward?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  holding 
up  a  reproving  forefinger. 

" — after  he  has  astounded  me  by  his  seventh  avowal. 
And  I  shall  behave  in  precisely  the  same  manner  the 
eighth  time  he  recurs  to  the  repugnant  subject;  but — " 

"The  ninth  time?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"He  has  remarkably  expressive  eyes,"  Miss  Allonby 
stated,  with  a  fine  irrelevance. 

"Ah,  youth,  youth!"  sighed  Mr.  Erwyn.  "Dear  child, 
I  pray  you,  do  not  trifle  with  the  happiness  that  is  within 
your  grasp !  5V  jeunesse  savait — the  proverb  is  somewhat 
musty.  But  we  who  have  attained  the  St.  Martin's 
summer  of  our  lives  and  have  grown  capable  of  but  a 
calm  and  tempered  affection  at  the  utmost — we  cannot 
but  look  wistfully  upon  the  wondrous  happiness  and  igno 
rance  of  youth,  and  we  would  warn  you,  were  it  possible, 
of  the  many  dangers  whereby  you  are  encompassed.  For 
Love  is  a  deity  that  must  not  be  trifled  with ;  his  voice 
may  chaunt  the  requiem  of  all  which  is  bravest  in  our 
mingled  natures,  or  sound  a  stave  of  such  nobility  as 
heartens  us  through  life.  He  is  kindly,  but  implacable; 
and  I  who  speak  to  you  have  seen  my  own  contentment 
blighted  by  this  flippant  jesting  with  his  omnipotence, 
and  that  ere  the  edge  of  my  first  razor  had  been  dulled. 
Tis  true,  I  have  lived  since  in  indifferent  comfort;  yet 
it  is  but  a  dreary  banquet  where  there  is  no  platter  laid 
for  Love,  and  within  the  chambers  of  my  heart — dust- 
gathering  now,  my  dear! — he  has  gone  unfed  these  fifteen 
years  or  more." 

"Ah,  goodness!"  sighed  Miss  Allonby,  for  she  was  great 
ly  moved  by  the  earnestness  of  his  speech.  "And  so," 
she  queried,  "  you  have  loved  mother  all  of  fifteen  years  ?" 

60 


at  UHarttnma0 

"Nay,  split  me — !"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Your  servant,  sir,"  said  the  voice  of  Lady  Allonby; 
"  I  trust  you  young  people  have  adjusted  matters  to  your 
satisfaction?" 


Ill 

"  Dear  madam,"  cried  Miss  Allonby,  "  I  am  overjoyed!" 
then  kissed  her  vigorously  and  left  the  room,  casting  in 
passage  an  arch  glance  at  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"  O  vulgarity!"  said  Lady  Allonby,  recovering  her  some 
what  rumpled  dignity,  "the  sweet  child  is  frightfully 
unpolished.  But,  I  suppose,  we  may  regard  the  matter 
as  settled?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  think,  dear  lady,  we  may 
with  safety  regard  the  matter  as  settled." 

"Dorothy  is  of  an  excitable  nature,"  she  observed,  and 
seated  herself  upon  the  divan ;  "  and  you,  dear  Mr.  Erwyn, 
who  know  women  so  thoroughly,  will  overlook  the  agita 
tion  of  an  artless  girl  placed  in  quite  unaccustomed  cir 
cumstances.  Nay,  I  myself  was  affected  by  my  first 
declaration." 

"Doubtless,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  and  sank  beside  her, 
"Lord  Stephen  was  very  moving." 

"  I  can  assure  you,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  that  he  was  not 
the  first." 

"  I'  gad,"  said  he,  "  I  remember  perfectly — " 

"You  do  not!"  Lady  Allonby  stated;  and  she  flushed. 

"You  wore  a  blue  gown,"  he  said. 

"Indeed?"  said  she. 

"And—" 

"  La,  if  I  did,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "  I  have  quite  forgot 
ten  it,  and  it  is  now  your  manifest  duty  to  do  likewise." 

"I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  sighing. 

61 


(gallantry 

"There  is  nothing  less  well-bred,"  she  commented, 
"than  a  good  memory.  I  would  decline  to  remain  in 
the  same  room  with  one  were  it  not  that  Dorothy  has 
deserted  you  in  this  strange  fashion.  Whither,  pray, 
has  she  gone?" 

Mr.  Erwyn  smiled  in  a  knowing  manner.  "  Her  tender 
heart,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "is  much  affected  by  the  pathetic 
and  moving  spectacle  of  the  poor  hungry  swans,  pining 
for  their  native  land  and  made  a  raree-show  for  visitors 
in  the  Pantiles;  and  she  has  gone  to  stay  them  with 
biscuits  and  to  comfort  them  with  cakes." 

"Really!"  said  Lady  Allonby. 

"And,"  Mr.  Erwyn  continued,  "to  defend  her  from  the 
possible  insolence  of  the  unformed  rustics  and  the  fero 
cious  gold-fish,  Captain  Audaine  had  obligingly  afforded 
service  as  an  escort." 

"O!"  said  Lady  Allonby;  then  added,  disapprovingly: 
"In  the  circumstances  she  might  permissibly  have  broken 
the  engagement." 

' '  But  there  is  no  engagement, ' '  said  Mr.  Erwyn —  "  as  yet. ' ' 

"Indeed?"  said  she. 

" Harkee,"  said  he;  "should  he  make  a  declaration  this 
afternoon  she  will  refuse  him." 

"Naturally,"  she  considered. 

"And  the  eighth  time,"  said  he. 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  she. 

"Yet  the  ninth  time—" 

"Well?"  said  she. 

Mr.  Erwyn  allowed  himself  a  noiseless  chuckle.  "  After 
the  ninth  time,"  Mr.  Erwyn  declared,  "there  will  be  an 
engagement." 

"Mr.  Erwyn!"  cried  Lady  Allonby,  with  widened  eyes, 
"  I  had  understood  that  Dorothy  looked  favorably  upon 
your  suit." 

62 


at   4Harttttma0 

"Anastasia!"  cried  he;  and  then  his  finger-tips  lightly 
caressed  his  brow.  "  'Tis  the  first  I  had  heard  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Erwyn. 

"  Surely—  "  she  began. 

"Nay,  but  far  more  surely,"  said  he,  "in  consideration 
of  the  fact  that,  not  a  half-hour  since,  you  deigned  to 
promise  me  your  hand  in  marriage — 

"O  la  now!"  cried  Lady  Allonby;  and,  recovering  her 
self,  smiled  courteously.  '  'Tis  the  first  I  had  heard  of 
it,"  said  she. 

They  stared  at  one  another  in  wonderment.  Then  Lady 
Allonby  burst  into  hysterical  laughter. 

"D'ye  mean — ?"  said  she. 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "so  unintentional  was  I  of 
aspiring  to  Miss  Allonby 's  affections  that  my  whole  soul 
was  set  upon  possessing  both  the  heart  and  person  of  a 
lady,  in  my  humble  opinion,  far  more  desirable." 

"I  had  not  dreamed—  "  she  commenced. 

"Behold,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  bitterly,  "how  rightly  is 
my  presumption  punished.  For  I,  with  a  fop's  audacity, 
had  thought  my  love  for  you  of  sufficient  moment  to  have 
been  long  since  observed,  and,  strong  in  my  conceit,  had 
scorned  a  pleasing  declaration  made  up  of  faint  phrases 
and  whining  ballad-endings.  I  spoke  as  my  heart  prompt 
ed  me,  but  the  heart  has  proven  a  poor  counsellor,  dear 
lady,  and  now  am  I  rewarded.  For  you  had  not  even 
known  of  my  passion,  and  that  which  my  presumption 
had  taken  as  a  reciprocal  affection  proves  in  the  ulti 
mate  but  a  kindly  aspiration  to  further  my  union  with 
another." 

"You  love  me?"  said  Lady  Allonby,  and  very  softly. 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  have  loved  you  all  my 
life — first  with  a  boyish  inclination  that  I  scarce  knew 
was  love,  and,  after  your  marriage  with  an  honorable  man 

5  63 


(gallantry 

had  severed  us,  as  I  thought,  irrevocably,  with  such  love 
as  an  ingenuous  person  may  bear  a  woman  whom  both 
circumstances  and  the  respect  in  which  he  holds  her  have 
placed  beyond  his  reach — a  love  that  might  not  be  spo 
ken,  but  of  which  I  had  considered  you  could  never  be 
ignorant." 

"Mr.  Erwyn — "  said  she. 

"Nay,  madam,  grant  a  losing  gamester  the  right  to 
rail  at  adverse  fate!  Since  your  widowhood  I  have  pur 
sued  you  with  attentions  which  I  now  perceive  must  at 
many  times  have  proven  distasteful.  But  my  adoration 
had  blinded  me,  and  I  shall  trouble  you  no  more.  I  did 
not  know  'twas  but  a  comedy  of  the  eternal  duel  'twixt 
man  and  woman,  nor  am  I  sorry,  dear  opponent,  that 
you  have  conquered.  For  how  valorously  you  fought! 
Even  without  the  magic  of  that  voice  which  stirs  my 
blood  so  strangely  or  the  witchery  of  those  swift,  doubt 
ful  glances,  I  had  succumbed,  I  think,  to  the  least  of 
those  sweet  sentences  which  died  in  sweeter  laughter — 
the  verbal  thrust,  the  staunch  parrying  of  my  veiled  as 
sault — were  it  but  for  admiration  of  their  perfect  artful 
ness.  Eh,  let  it  be!  for  you  have  triumphed,  O  puissant 
lady,  and  I  yield  the  victor — a  devoted  and,  it  may  be, 
a  rather  heavy  heart." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "you  are  aware  that 
once—" 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "'twas  the  sand  on  which 
I  builded.  But  I  am  wiser  now,  and  I  perceive  that  the 
feeling  you  entertain  toward  me  is  but  the  pale  shadow 
of  a  youthful  inclination.  I  shall  not  presume  upon  it. 
O,  I  am  somewhat  proud,  dear  Anastasia;  I  have  freely 
given  you  my  heart,  such  as  it  is ;  and  were  you  minded 
to  accept  it,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour,  through  friendship 
or  through  pity  only,  I  would  refuse.  For  my  love  of 

64 


at 

you  has  been  the  one  pure  and  quite  unselfish  emotion 
of  my  life,  and  I  may  not  barter  it  for  an  affection  of  lesser 
magnitude  either  in  kind  or  in  degree.  And  so,  farewell!" 

"Yet  hold,  dear  sir — "  said  Lady  Allonby. 

"Nay,  but  I  am,  as  ever,  at  your  service,"  said  Mr. 
Erwyn,  and  he  paused  in  transit  for  the  door. 

" — since,  as  this  betokens — 

"Tis  a  tasteful  handkerchief,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn — "but 
somewhat  moist ! ' ' 

"  And — my  eyes  ?" 

"Red,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"I  have  been  weeping." 

"Why?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  wed  Dorothy." 

Mr.  Erwyn  resumed  his  seat  with  impetuosity.  "  You 
objected?"  said  he. 

"I  think,"  Lady  Allonby  stated,  "that  I  would  enter 
tain  the  same  objection  toward  any  woman — 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"—  except- 

"  Incomparable  Anastasia!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 


IV 

Afterward  these  two  sat  long  in  the  twilight,  talking 
very  little,  and  eyes  rarely  meeting,  although  their  hands 
met  at  quite  irrelevant  intervals.  Just  the  graze  of  a 
butterfly  to  make  it  certain  that  the  other  was  there: 
but  all  the  while  either  regarded  the  tiny  fire  which  had 
set  each  content  of  the  room  a-dancing  in  the  compan 
ionable  darkness.  "D'ye  remember — ?"  was  woven  like 
a  refrain  through  their  placid  duo. 

It  was,  one  estimates,  their  highest  hour.  Frivolous 

65 


(gallantrg 

and  trivial  persons  you  might  have  called  them  and  have 
justified  the  accusation;  but  even  to  the  fop  and  the 
coquette  it  was  granted  for  an  hour  to  behold  the  reason 
of  all  things,  and  to  comprehend  God;  presently  they 
would  forget ;  meanwhile  there  was  a  wonderful  sense  of 
dreams  come  true. 


Sljr    ffiafiiutl    Ifaufiftttoatt 

^4s  Pfeyec/  at  Tanbridge  Wells,  April  I,  1750 

"  But  this  is  the  most  cruel  thing,  to  marry  one  does  not 
know  how,  nor  why,  nor  wherefore. — Gad,  I  never  liked  any 
body  less  in  my  life.  Poor  woman!  Gad,  Pm  sorry  for 
her,  too;  for  I  have  no  reason  to  hate  her  neither;  but  I  wish 
we  could  keep  it  secret!  why,  I  don't  believe  any  of  this 
company  would  speak  of  it." 


iramatis 

CAPTAIN  AUDAINE,  of  a  pompous  and  handsome  person,  and 

loves  Miss  Allonby. 
LORD   HUMPHREY   DEGGE,   younger  son  to  the   Marquis  of 

Venour,  makes  love  to  Miss  Allonby. 
GERALD    ALLONBY,    brother   to    Miss   Allonby,    a   true    raw 

Squire. 

MR.  ERWYN,  betrothed  to  Lady  Allonby. 
VANRINGHAM,  an  impudent  tragedian  of  the  Globe  Company. 
QUARMBY,  Vanringham's  associate. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  an  heiress,  of  a  petulant  humor,  in  love  with 

Audaine. 
MARCHIONESS  OF  FALMOUTH,  an  impertinent  affected  dowager, 

and  grandmother  to  Miss  Allonby. 
LADY  ALLONBY,  step-mother  to  Miss  Allonby  and  Gerald. 

POSTILIONS,  SERVANTS,  Etc. 

SCENE 

Tunbridge  Wells,  thence  shifting  to  Chetwode  Lodge,  Mr. 
Babington-Herle's  house,  on  Rusthall  Common,  within 
two  miles  of  the  town. 


(Eaaual 


PROEM:  —  Introdactive  of  Captain  Francis  Audaine 

[T  appears  convenient  here  to  pursue  Miss 
Allonby  on  her  stroll  about  the  Pantiles 
in  company  with  Captain  Audaine.  The 
latter  has  been  at  pains  to  record  the 
events  of  the  afternoon  and  evening,  so 
that  I  give  you  his  own  account  of  them, 
though  I  abridge  in  consideration  of  his  leisured  style. 
Pompous  and  verbose  I  grant  him,  even  in  curtailment; 
but  you  are  to  remember  these  were  the  faults  of  his 
age,  ingrained  and  defiant  of  deletion;  and  should  you 
elect  to  peruse  his  memoirs1  you  will  find  that  I  have 
considerately  spared  you  a  majority  of  the  not  unplati- 
tudinous  digressions  to  which  the  future  Earl  of  Garendon 
was  lamentably  addicted. 

For  the  purpose  of  my  tale  you  are  to  view  him  as  Tun- 
bridge  did  at  this  particular  time:  as  a  handsome  and 
formal  person,  twenty-eight  years  old  perhaps,  of  whom 
nobody  knew  anything  quite  definite  —  if  a  smatch  of  the 
brogue  be  excepted  —  save  that  after  a  correspondence  of 
gallantries,  of  some  three  weeks'  duration,  he  was  the 
manifest  slave  of  Dorothy  Allonby,  and  had  already 

1  There  appears  to  have  been  no  American  edition  since  that,  in 
1836,  printed  in  Philadelphia,  "for  Thomas  Wardle,  No.  15  Minor 
Street."  In  England  the  memoirs  of  Lord  Garendon  are  still  included 
in  the  publishing  list  of  Bream  &  Fulkyn. 

69 


fought  three  duels  behind  Ormerod  House — with  Will 
Pratchet,  Lord  Humphrey  Degge,  and  Sir  Eugene  Harra- 
ble,  respectively,  each  one  of  whom  was  a  declared  suitor 
for  her  hand. 

And  with  this  prelude  I  begin  on  my  transcription. 


Miss  Allonby  (says  Captain  Audaine)  was  that  after 
noon  in  a  mighty  cruel  humor.  Though  I  had  omitted 
no  reasonable  method  to  convince  her  of  the  immensity 
of  my  passion,  'twas  without  the  twitch  of  an  eyelash 
she  endured  the  volley  of  my  sighs  and  the  fusillade  of  my 
respectful  protestations — and  perfect  candor  compels  me 
to  admit  that  toward  the  end  her  silvery  laughter  dis 
rupted  the  periods  of  a  most  elegant  and  sensible  perora 
tion.  And  when  the  affair  was  concluded,  and  for  the 
seventh  time  I  had  implored  her  to  make  me  the  happiest 
of  men,  the  rogue  merely  observed:  "  But  I  don't  want  to 
marry  you.  Why  on  earth  should  I  ?" 

"For  the  sake  of  peace,"  said  I,  "and  in  self -protec 
tion,  since  as  long  as  you  remain  obdurate  I  shall  con 
tinue  to  importune,  and  presently  I  shall  pester  you  to 
death." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  it  more  than  probable,"  she  returned ; 
"  for  you  dog  me  like  a  bailiff.  I  am  cordially  a- weary, 
Captain  Audaine,  of  your  incessant  persecutions;  and, 
after  all,  marrying  you  is  perhaps  the  ci vilest  way  to  be 
rid  of  both  them  and  you." 

But  by  this  I  held  each  velvet-soft  and  tiny  hand. 
"Nay,"  I  dissented;  "the  subject  is  somewhat  too  sacred 
for  jest.  I  am  no  modish  lover,  dearest  and  best  of 
creatures,  to  regard  marriage  as  a  business  transaction, 

70 


and  the  lady  as  so  much  live-stock  thrown  in  with  the 
estate.  I  love  you  with  sincerity;  and  give  me  leave  to 
assure  you,  madam,  with  a  freedom  which  I  think  per 
missible  on  so  serious  an  occasion  that,  even  as  beautiful 
as  you  are,  I  could  never  be  contented  with  your  person 
without  your  heart." 

She  sat  with  eyes  downcast,  all  one  blush.  Miss 
Dorothy  Allonby  was  in  the  bloom  of  nineteen,  and  shone 
with  every  charm  peculiar  to  her  sex.  But  I  have  no 
mind  to  weary  you  with  poetical  rhodomontades  till  I 
have  proven  her  a  paragon  and  myself  an  imbecile,  as 
most  lovers  do ;  in  a  word,  her  face,  and  shape,  and  mien, 
and->wit,  alike  astounded  and  engaged  all  those  who  had 
the  happiness  to  know  her,  and  had  long  ago  rendered 
her  the  object  of  my  entire  adoration  and  the  target  of  my 
daily  rhapsodies.  Now  I  viewed  her  with  a  dissension  of 
the  liveliest  hopes  and  fears,  for  she  had  hesitated,  and 
had  by  hesitation  conceded  my  addresses  to  be  not  irre 
trievably  repugnant;  and  within  the  instant  I  knew  that 
any  life  unde voted  to  her  service  and  protection  could  be 
but  a  lingering  disease. 

But  by -and -by:  "You  shall  have  your  answer  this 
evening,"  she  said,  and  so  left  me. 

I  fathomed  the  meaning  of  "  this  evening"  well  enough. 
For  my  adored  Dorothy  was  all  romance,  and  by  pref 
erence  granted  me  rendezvous  in  the  back  garden,  where 
she  would  tantalize  me  nightly,  from  her  balcony,  after 
the  example  of  the  Veronese  lady  in  Shakespeare's  spirited 
tragedy,  which  she  prodigiously  admired.  As  concerns 
myself,  a  private  liking  for  romance  had  been  of  late  some 
what  tempered  by  the  inclemency  of  the  weather  and  the 
obvious  unfriendliness  of  the  dog;  but  there  is  no  re 
sisting  a  lady's  commands;  and  clear  or  foul,  you  might 
at  any  twilight's  death  have  found  me  under  her  window, 

71 


(Sallanlrg 

where  a  host  of  lyric  phrases  protested  my  devotion  and 
a  cold  in  the  head  confirmed  it. 

This  night  was  black  as  a  coal-pit.  Strolling  beneath 
the  casement,  well  wrapt  in  my  cloak  (for  it  drizzled),  I 
meditated  impartially  upon  the  perfections  of  my  dear 
mistress  and  the  tyrannic  despotism  of  love.  Being  the 
source  of  our  existence,  'tis  not  unreasonably,  perhaps, 
that  this  passion  assumes  the  proprietorship  of  our 
destinies  and  exacts  of  all  mankind  a  common  tribute. 
To-night,  at  least,  I  viewed  the  world  as  a  brave  pavilion, 
lighted  by  the  stars  and  swept  by  the  clean  winds  of 
heaven,  wherein  we  enacted  varied  roles  with  God  as 
audience;  where,  in  turn,  we  strutted  or  cringed  about 
the  stage,  where,  in  turn,  we  were  beset  and  rent  by  an 
infinity  of  passions ;  but  where  every  man  must  play  the 
part  of  lover.  That  passion  alone,  I  said,  is  universal ;  it 
set  wise  Solomon  a-jigging  in  criminal  byways,  and  sin 
ewy  Hercules  himself  was  no  stranger  to  its  inquietudes 
and  joys.  And  I  cried  aloud  with  the  Roman,  Parce 
precor!  and  afterward  on  God  to  make  me  a  little  worthier 
of  Dorothy. 

II 

Engrossed  in  meditations  such  as  these,  I  was  fetched 
earthward  by  the  clicking  of  a  lock,  and,  turning,  saw 
the  door  immediately  beneath  her  balcony  unclose  and 
afford  egress  to  a  slender  and  hooded  figure.  My  amaze 
ment  was  considerable  and  my  felicity  beyond  rhetoric. 

"Dorothy — !"  I  whispered. 

"Come!"  was  her  response;  and  her  finger-tips  rested 
upon  my  arm  what  time  she  guided  me  toward  the 
gateway  opening  into  Jervis  Lane.  I  followed  with  a 
trepidation  you  may  not  easily  conceive;  nor  was  this 

72 


(Casual    ij0 

diminished  when  I  found  a,  post-chaise  there,  into  which 
my  angel  hastily  tripped. 

I  babbled  I  know  not  what  inarticulate  nonsense.  But, 
" Heavens!"  she  retorted,  "d'ye  mean  to  keep  the  parson 
waiting  all  night?" 

This  was  her  answer,  then.  Well,  'twas  more  than  I 
could  have  hoped  for,  though  to  a  man  of  any  sensibility 
this  summary  disposal  of  our  love-affair  could  not  but 
vaguely  smack  of  the  distasteful.  Say  what  you  will, 
every  gentleman  has  about  him  somewhere  a  tincture  of 
that  venerable  and  artless  age  when  wives  were  taken 
by  capture  and  were  retained  by  force;  he  prefers  to 
have  the  lady  hold  off  until  the  very  last;  and  properly, 
her  tongue  must  sound  defiance  long  after  melting  eyes 
have  signalled  that  the  traitorous  heart  of  her,  like  an 
anatomical  Tarpeia,  is  ready  to  betray  the  citadel  and 
yield  the  treasury  of  her  charms. 

Nevertheless,  I  stepped  into  the  vehicle.  The  postilion 
was  off  in  a  twinkling,  as  the  saying  is,  over  the  rough 
est  road  in  England.  Conversation  was  impossible,  for 
Dorothy  and  I  were  jostling  like  two  pills  in  a  box;  and 
as  the  first  observation  I  attempted  resulted  in  a  badly 
bitten  tongue,  I  prudently  held  my  peace. 

This  endured  for,  perhaps,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  the 
end  of  which  period  the  post-chaise  on  a  sudden  stopped, 
and  I  assisted  my  companion  to  alight.  Before  us  was  a 
villa  of  considerable  dimension,  and  situate,  so  far  as  I 
could  immediately  detect,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  and 
desolate  moor;  there  wras  no  trace  of  human  habitation 
within  the  radius  of  the  eye ;  and  the  house  itself  presented 
not  a  glimpse  of  tenancy  or  illumination. 

"O  Lord,  madam —  '  I  began. 

"Hasten!"  spoke  a  voice  from  within  the  Parsonage. 
And  Dorothy  drew  me  toward  a  side  door,  overhung 

73 


with  ivy,  where,  sure  enough,  a  dim  light  burned.  'Twas 
but  a  solitary  candle  stuck  upon  a  dresser  at  the  remoter 
end  of  a  large  and  low-ceiled  apartment;  and  in  this 
flickering  obscurity  we  found  a  tremulous  parson  in 
full  canonicals,  who  had  united  our  hands  and  gabbled 
half-way  through  the  marriage  service  before  I  had  the 
slightest  notion  of  what  was  befalling  me. 

And  such  is  the  unreasonable  disposition  of  mankind 
that  the  consummation  of  my  most  ardent  desires  act 
ually  aroused  a  feeling  not  altogether  unakin  to  irritation. 
This  skulking  celerity,  this  hole-and-corner  business,  I 
thought,  was  in  ill-accord  with  the  respect  due  to  a  sacra 
ment  ;  and,  personally,  I  could  have  wished  my  marriage 
to  have  borne  a  less  striking  resemblance  to  the  con 
ference  of  three  thieves  in  a  cellar.  But  'twas  over  in 
two  twos.  Within  scantier  time  than  it  takes  to  tell 
of  it,  Francis  and  Dorothy  were  made  one,  and  I  had 
turned  to  salute  my  wife. 

She  gave  a  shriek  of  intolerable  anguish.  "Heavens!" 
said  she,  "I  have  married  the  wrong  man!" 


Ill 

Without  delay  I  snatched  up  the  guttering  candle  and 
held  it  to  my  wife's  countenance.  You  can  conceive 
that  'twas  with  no  pleasurable  emotion  I  discovered  I 
had  inadvertently  espoused  the  Dowager  Marchioness  of 
Falmouth,  my  adored  Dorothy's  grandmother,  and  in 
frankness  I  can't  deny  that  the  lady  seemed  equally  dis 
satisfied  :  words  failed  us ;  and  the  newly  wedded  couple 
stared  at  one  another  in  silence. 

"Captain  Audaine,"  said  she,  at  last,  "the  situation  is 
awkward." 

74 


QIIj?   (Easual   ^ 

"Sure,  madam,"  I  returned,  "and  that  is  the  precise 
thought  which  has  just  occurred  to  me." 

"And  I  am  of  the  opinion,"  she  continued,  "that  you 
owe  me  some  sort  of  explanation.  For  I  had  planned  to 
elope  with  Mr.  Vanringham— 

"Do  I  understand  your  Ladyship  to  allude  to  Mr. 
Francis  Vanringham,  the  play-actor,  at  present  the  talk 
of  Tunbridge  yonder?"  said  I. 

She  bowed  a  grave  response. 

"  This  is  surprising  news, "  said  I.  "  And  grant  me  leave 
to  tell  you  that  a  woman  of  mature  years,  possessed  of  an 
abundant  fortune  and  unassailable  gentility,  does  not  by 
ordinary  sneak  out  of  the  kitchen  door  to  meet  a  raddle- 
faced  actor  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  'Tis,  indeed,  a 
circumstance  to  stagger  human  credulity.  O,  believe  me, 
madam,  for  a  virtuous  woman  the  back  garden  is  not  a 
fitting  approach  to  the  altar,  nor  is  a  comedian  an  appro 
priate  companion  there  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening." 

"Hey,  my  fine  fellow,"  says  my  wife,  "and  what  were 
•you  doing  in  the  back  garden?" 

"Among  all  true  lovers,"  I  returned,  "it  is  an  immemo 
rial  custom  to  prowl  like  sentinels  beneath  the  windows 
of  the  adored  and  beauteous.  And  I,  madam,  had  the 
temerity  to  aspire  toward  an  honorable  union  with  your 
granddaughter." 

She  wrung  her  withered  hands.  "  That  any  reputable 
woman  should  have  nocturnal  appointments  with  gentle 
men  in  the  back  garden,  and  beguile  her  own  grand 
mother  into  an  odious  marriage!  I  protest,  Captain 
Audaine,  the  world  to-day  is  no  longer  a  suitable  residence 
for  a  lady!" 

44  Look  you,  sir,  this  is  a  cruel  bad  business,"  the  Parson 
here  put  in .  He  was  pacing  the  apartment  in  an  altercation 
of  dubiety  and  amaze.  "  Mr.  Vanringham  will  be  vexed." 

75 


(SaUantrg 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  I  retorted,  "if  I  lack  time  to 
sympathize  with  your  Mr.  Vanringham.  Just  at  present 
I  am  sufficiently  engrossed  with  my  own  affairs.  Am  I, 
indeed,  to  understand  that  this  lady  and  I  are  legally 
married?" 

He  rubbed  his  chin.  "By  the  Lord  Harry,"  says  he, 
"  'tis  a  case  that  lacks  precedents !  But  the  coincidence 
of  the  Christian  names  is  devilish  awkward;  the  service 
takes  no  cognizance  of  surnames,  and  I  have  merely  united 
a  Francis  and  a  Dorothy." 

"O  Lord,  Mr.  What-d'ye-call-um,"  said  I,  "then  there 
is  but  one  remedy  and  that  is  an  immediate  divorce." 

My  wife  shrieked.  "  Have  you  no  sense  of  decency, 
Captain  Audaine?  Never  has  there  been  a  divorce  in 
my  family.  And  shall  I  be  the  first  to  drag  that  honored 
name  into  a  public  court — to  have  my  reputation  worried 
at  the  bar  by  a  parcel  of  sniggering  lawyers,  while  the 
town  wits  buzz  about  it  like  flies  about  carrion  ?  I  pray 
you,  do  not  suggest  such  a  hideous  thing." 

"Here's  the  other  Francis,"  says  the  Parson,  at  this 
point.  And  it  was — a  raffish,  handsome  fellow,  somewhat 
suggestive  of  the  royal  duke,  yet  rather  more  like  a  sneak- 
thief,  and  with  a  whiff  somewhere  of  the  dancing-master ; 
and  at  first  glance  you  recognized  in  the  actor  a  personage, 
for  he  compelled  the  eye  with  a  monstrous  vividness  of 
color  and  gesture.  To-night  he  had  missed  his  lady  at 
their  rendezvous,  owing  to  my  premature  appearance, 
and  had  followed  us  post-haste. 

"My  Castalio!"  she  screamed.     "My  Beaugard!"1    She 

1  I  never  saw  the  rascal  act,  thank  Heaven,  since  in  that  event,  re 
port  assures  me,  I  might  conceivably  have  accredited  him  with  the 
possessal  of  certain  meritorious  qualities,  however  trivial;  but  it  ap 
pears  these  two  above-mentioned  roles  were  the  especial  puppetry  in 
which  Mr.  Vanringham  was  most  successful  in  wringing  both  tears  and 
laughter  from  the  injudicious. — F.  A. 

76 


ran  to  him,  and  with  disjointed  talk  and  quavering  ut 
terance  disclosed  the  present  lamentable  posture  of 
affairs. 

And  I  found  the  tableau  they  presented  singular.  My 
wife  had  been  a  toast,  they  tell  me,  in  Queen  Anne's  time, 
and  even  now  the  lean  and  restless  gentlewoman  showed 
as  the  abandoned  house  of  youth  and  wit  and  beauty, 
with  only  here  and  there  a  trace  of  the  old  occupancy; 
and  always  her  furtive  eyes  shone  with  a  cold  and  shift 
ing  glitter,  as  though  a  frightened  imp  peeped  through 
a  mask  of  Hecuba,  and  in  every  movement  there  was  an 
ineffable  touch  of  something  loosely  hinged  and  fantastic. 
In  a  word,  the  Marchioness  was  not  unconscionably  sane, 
and  was  known  far  and  wide  as  a  gallant  woman  resolutely 
oblivious  to  the  batterings  of  time,  and  so  avid  of  flattery 
that  she  was  ready  to  smile  on  any  man  who  durst  give 
the  lie  to  her  looking-glass.  Demented  landlady  of  her 
heart,  she  would  speedily  sublet  that  antiquated  cham 
ber  to  the  first  adventurer  prepared  to  pay  his  scot  in 
the  false  coin  of  compliment,  and  'twras  not  difficult  to 
comprehend  how  this  young  Thespian  had  acquired  its 
tenancy. 

But  now  the  face  of  Mr.  Vanringham  was  attenuated  by 
her  revelations,  and  the  wried  mouth  of  it,  as  clogged,  sug 
gested  that  the  party  be  seated,  in  order  to  consider  more 
at  ease  the  unfortunate  contretemps.  Fresh  lights  were 
kindled,  as  one  and  all  were  past  fear  of  discovery  by  this, 
and  we  four  assembled  about  a  table  which  occupied  the 
centre  of  the  apartment. 


IV 

"The  situation,"  Mr.  Vanringham  began,  "may  rea 
sonably  be  described  as  desperate.     Here  we  sit,  four 

77 


ruined  beings.  For  Dr.  Quarmby  has  betrayed  an  un 
offending  couple  into  involuntary  matrimony,  an  act  of 
which  his  Bishop  can  scarcely  fail  to  take  official  notice ; 
Captain  Audaine  and  the  Marchioness  are  entrapped  into 
a  loveless  marriage,  than  which  there  mayn't  be  a  greater 
misery  in  life;  and  my  own  future,  I  needn't  add,  is  ir 
revocably  blighted  by  the  loss  of  my  respected  Dorothy, 
without  whom  continued  animation  must  necessarily  be  a 
hideous  and  hollow  mockery.  Yet  there  occurs  to  me  a 
panacea  for  these  disasters." 

"Then,  indeed,  Mr.  Vanringham,"  said  I,  " there  is  one 
of  us  who  will  be  uncommonly  glad  to  know  the  name 
of  it." 

He  faced  me  with  a  kind  of  compassion  in  his  eyes. 
"You,  sir,  have  caused  a  sweet  and  innocent  lady  to 
marry  you  against  her  will —  Oho,  beyond  doubt,  your 
intentions  were  immaculate;  but  the  fact  remains  in  its 
stark  enormity,  and  the  hand  of  an  inquisitive  child  is 
not  ordinarily  salved  by  its  previous  ignorance  as  to  the 
corrosive  properties  of  fire.  You  have  betrayed  con 
fiding  womanhood,  an  act  abhorrent  to  all  notions  of 
gentility.  There's  but  one  conclusive  proof  of  your  re 
pentance — need  I  mention  that  I  allude  to  self-destruc 
tion?" 

"O  Lord,  sir,"  I  observed,  "suicide  is  a  deadly  sin, 
and  I  would  not  willingly  insult  any  gentlewoman  by 
evincing  so  marked  a  desire  for  the  devil's  company  in 
preference  to  hers." 

"  Your  argument  is  sophistry,"  he  returned,  with  a  trace 
of  contempt,  "  since  'tis  your  death  alone  that  can  endear 
you  to  your  bride.  Death  is  the  ultimate  and  skilled  as 
say  er  of  alloyed  humanity ;  and  by  his  art  our  gross  con 
stituents' — our  foibles,  our  pettinesses,  nay,  our  very  crimes 
— are  severed  from  the  sterling  ore,  that  spark  of  divinity 

78 


which  glows  in  the  vilest  bosom,  and  from  his  crucible 
the  memory  of  this,  like  an  ethereal  spirit,  mounts  to 
hallow  our  renown  and  to  enshrine  our  final  resting-place. 
Ah,  no,  Captain  Audaine!  death  alone  may  canonize  the 
husband.  Once  you're  dead,  your  wife  will  adore  you; 
once  you're  dead,  your  wife  and  I  have  before  us  an  un 
obstructed  road  to  marital  felicity  which,  living,  you  sadly 
encumber;  and  only  when  he  has  delivered  your  funeral 
oration  may  Dr.  Quarmby  be  exempt  from  apprehension 
lest  his  part  in  your  marriage  ceremony  bring  about  his 
defrockment.  I  urge  the  greatest  good  for  the  greatest 
number,  Captain;  living,  you  plunge  all  four  of  us  into 
irretrievable  misery ;  whereas  the  nobility  of  an  immediate 
felo-de-se  will  in  common  decency  exalt  your  soul  to 
Heaven  accompanied  and  endorsed  by  the  fervent  prayers 
of  three  grateful  hearts." 

"  And  by  the  Lord  Harry,"  says  the  Parson,  "while  no 
clergyman  extant  has  a  more  cordial  aversion  to  suicide, 
I  cannot  understand  why  a  prolonged  existence  should 
greatly  tempt  you.  You  love  Miss  Dorothy  Allonby,  as 
all  Tunbridge  knows;  and  to  a  person  of  sensibility,  what 
can  be  more  awkward  than  suddenly  to  have  thrust  upon 
him  grandfathership  of  the  adored  one?  You  must  in 
this  position  necessarily  be  exposed  to  the  committal  of 
a  thousand  gaucheries  daily;  and  if  you  insist  upon  your 
irreligious  project  of  procuring  a  divorce,  what,  I  ask,  can 
be  your  standing  with  the  lady  ?  Can  she  smile  upon  the 
suit  of  an  individual  who  has  publicly  cast  aside  the  sworn 
love  and  obedience  of  the  being  to  whom  she  owes  her 
very  existence?  or  will  any  clergyman  in  England  par 
ticipate  in  the  union  of  a  woman  to  her  ex-grandfather? 
Nay,  believe  me,  sir,  'tis  less  the  selfishness  than  the  folly 
of  your  clinging  to  this  vale  of  tears  which  I  deplore.  And 
I  protest  that  this  rope" — he  fished  up  a  coil  from  the 

6  79 


(gallantry 

corner — "appears  to  have  been  deposited  here  by  a 
benign  and  all-seeing  Providence  to  suggest  the  manifold 
advantages  of  hanging  yourself  as  compared  with  the 
untidy  operation  of  cutting  one's  throat." 

"And  conceive,  sir,"  says  my  wife,  "what  must  be  the 
universal  grief  for  the  bridegroom  so  untimely  taken  off 
in  the  primal  crescence  of  his  honeymoon !  Your  funeral 
will  be  unparalleled  both  for  sympathy  and  splendor; 
all  Tunbridge  will  attend  in  tears ;  and  'twill  afford  me  a 
melancholy  but  utterly  sincere  pleasure  to  extend  to  you 
the  hospitality  of  the  Allonby  mausoleum,  w^hich  many 
connoisseurs  have  accounted  the  finest  in  the  three  king 
doms." 

"I  must  venture,"  said  I,  "to  terminate  this  very 
singular  conversation.  You  have,  one  and  all,  stated 
certain  undeniable  advantages  incidental  to  my  imme 
diate  demise;  your  logic  is  unassailable  and  has  proven 
suicide  my  unquestionable  duty;  and  my  refutation  is 
confined  to  the  simple  statement  that  I  will  cheerfully  see 
every  one  of  you  damned  before  I'll  do  it." 

Mr.  Francis  Vanringham  rose  with  a  little  bow.  "You 
have  insulted  both  womanhood  and  the  Established  Church 
by  the  spitting  out  of  that  ribald  oath ;  and  me  you  have 
with  equal  levity  wronged  by  the  theft  of  my  affianced 
bride.  I  am  only  a  play-actor,  but  in  inflicting  an  insult 
a  gentleman  must  either  lift  his  inferior  to  his  own  station 
or  else  forfeit  his  gentility.  I  wear  a  sword,  Captain 
Audaine.  Heyho,  will  you  grant  me  the  usual  satis 
faction?" 

"My  fascinating  comedian,"  said  I,  "if  'tis  a  fight  you 
are  desirous  of,  I  can  assure  you  that  in  my  present 
state  of  mind  I  would  cross  swords  with  a  costermonger, 
or  the  devil,  or  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  with  quite 
equal  impartiality.  But  scarcely  in  the  view  of  a  lady, 

80 


©astral    if 

and,  therefore,  as  you  boast  a  greater  influence  in  that 
quarter,  will  you  kindly  advise  the  withdrawal  of  yonder 
unexpected  addition  to  my  family?" 

"There's  an  inner  room,"  says  he,  pointing  to  the  door 
behind  me ;  and  I  held  it  open  as  my  wife  swept  through. 

"You  are  the  epitome  of  selfishness,"  she  flung  out,  in 
passing;  "for  had  you  possessed  an  ounce  of  gallantry, 
you  would  long  ago  have  freed  me  from  this  odious  mar 
riage." 

"Sure,  madam,"  I  returned,  with  a  congee;  "and  is  it 
not  rather  a  compliment  that  I  so  willingly  forfeit  a 
superlunary  bliss  in  order  to  retain  the  pleasure  of  your 
society?" 

She  sniffed,  and  I  closed  the  door;  and  within  the 
moment  the  two  men  fell  upon  me,  from  the  rear,  and 
presently  had  me  trussed  like  a  fowl  and  bound  with  that 
abominable  Parson's  coil  of  rope. 


"Believe  me,"  says  Mr.  Vanringham,  now  seated  upon 
the  table  and  indolently  dangling  his  heels — the  ecclesi 
astical  monstrosity,  having  locked  the  door  upon  Mrs. 
Audaine,  had  occupied  a  chair  and  was  composedly  smok 
ing  a  churchwarden — "believe  me,  I  lament  the  neces 
sity  of  this  uncouth  proceeding.  But  hey  ho!  man  is  a 
selfish  animal.  You  take  me,  sir,  my  affection  for  yon 
der  venerable  lady  does  not  keep  me  awake  o'  nights; 
yet  is  a  rich  marriage  the  only  method  to  amend  my 
threadbare  fortunes,  so  that  I  cheerfully  avail  myself  of 
her  credulity.  By  God!"  cries  he,  with  a  quick  lift  of 
speech,  "to-morrow  I  had  been  a  landed  gentleman  but 
for  you,  you  blundering  omadhaun!  And  is  a  shabby 

81 


(Sallantrg 

merry-andrew  from  the  devil  knows  where  to  pop  in  and 
spoil  the  prettiest  plot  was  ever  hatched?" 

'Twas  like  a  flare  of  Ughtning,  this  sudden  outburst  of 
arid  malignity;  for  you  saw  in  it,  quintessentialized,  the 
man's  stark  and  venomous  hatred  of  a  world  which  had 
ill-used  him;  and  'twas  gone  as  quickly  as  the  lightning, 
yielding  to  the  pleasantest  smile  imaginable.  Meanwhile 
you  are  to  picture  me  and  my  emotions  as  I  lay  beneath 
his  oscillating  toes,  inanimate  and  entirely  helpless. 

"  'Twas  not  that  I  lacked  the  courage  to  fight  you,"  he 
continues,  "nor  the  skill,  either.  But  there  is  always  the 
possibility  that  by  some  awkward  thrust  or  other  you 
might  deprive  the  stage  of  a  distinguished  ornament ;  and 
as  a  sincere  admirer  of  my  genius,  I  must,  in  decency, 
avoid  such  risks.  'Twas  necessary  to  me,  of  course,  that 
you  be  got  out  of  this  world  speedily,  since  a  further  con 
tinuance  of  your  existence  would  disastrously  interfere 
with  my  plans  for  the  future;  having  gone  thus  far,  I 
cannot  reasonably  be  expected  to  cede  my  interest  in  the 
Marchioness  and  her  estate.  Accordingly  I  decide  upon 
the  handiest  method  and  tip  the  wink  to  Quarmby  here ; 
the  lady  quits  the  apartment  in  order  to  afford  us  op 
portunity  to  settle  our  pretensions,  with  cutlery  as 
arbiter,  and  returns  to  find  your  perforated  carcass  artis 
tically  disposed  in  yonder  extremity  of  the  room.  Slain 
in  an  affair  of  honor,  my  dear  Captain!  The  disputed 
damsel  will  think  none  the  worse  of  me,  a  man  of  demon 
strated  valor  and  affection;  Quarmby  and  I'll  bury  you 
in  the  cellar;  and  being  freed  from  her  recent  and  un 
fortunate  alliance,  my  esteemed  Dorothy  will  immediate 
ly  seek  consolation  in  the  embraces  of  a  more  acceptable 
spouse.  Confess,  sir,  is  it  not  a  scheme  of  Arcadian 
simplicity?" 

'Twas  the  most  extraordinary  sensation  of  my  life  to 

82 


(Eaauai 

note  the  utterly  urbane  and  cheerful  countenance  with 
which  Mr.  Vanringham  disclosed  the  meditated  atrocity. 
This  unprincipled  young  man  was  about  to  run  me 
through  with  no  more  compunction  than  a  naturalist  in 
the  act  of  pinning  a  new  beetle  among  his  collection  may 
momentarily  be  aware  of. 

Then  my  quickened  faculties  were  stirred  on  a  sudden, 
and  for  the  first  time  I  opened  my  mouth. 

"You  were  about  to  say — ?"  he  queried. 

"  I  was  about  to  relieve  a  certain  surplusage  of  emotion," 
I  retorted,  "by  observing  that  I  regret  to  find  you,  sir,  a 
chattering,  lean-witted  fool — a  vain  and  improvident  fool !" 

"Harsh  words,  my  Captain,"  says  he,  with  lifted  eye 
brows. 

"O  Lord,  sir,  but  not  of  an  undeserved  asperity!"  I 
returned.  "D'ye  think  the  Marchioness,  her  flighty  head 
crammed  with  scraps  of  idiotic  romance,  would  elope  save 
with  regard  for  the  canons  of  romance  ?  Not  so ;  depend 
upon  it,  a  letter  was  left  upon  her  pin-cushion  announcing 
her  removal  with  you,  and  in  the  most  approved  heroic 
style  arraigning  the  obduracy  of  her  unsympathetic  grand 
children.  D'ye  think  Gerald  Allonby  will  not  follow 
her  ?  Sure,  and  he  will ;  and  the  proof  is,"  I  added,  "  that 
you  may  hear  his  horses  yonder  on  the  heath,  as  I  heard 
them  some  moments  ago." 

Vanringham  leaped  to  the  floor  and  stood  thus,  all 
tension.  He  raised  clenched,  quivering  hands  toward 
the  ceiling.  "O  King  of  Jesters!"  he  cried,  in  horrid 
blasphemy;  and  then  again:  "O  King  of  Jesters!" 

And  by  this  men  were  shouting  without,  and  at  the  door 
there  was  a  prodigious  and  augmented  hammering.  And 
the  Parson  wrung  his  hands  and  began  to  shake  like  a 
dish  of  jelly  in  a  thunder-storm. 

"Captain  Audaine,"  Mr.  Vanringham  resumed,  with 

83 


(gallantry 

more  tranquillity,  "you  are  correct.  Clidamira  and 
Parthenissa  would  never  have  fled  into  the  night  without 
leaving  a  note  upon  the  pin-cushion.  The  folly  I  kindled 
in  your  wife's  addled  pate  has  proven  my  ruin.  Remains 
to  make  the  best  of  Hobson's  choice."  He  unlocked  the 
door.  " Gentlemen,  gentlemen!"  says  he,  with  deprecat 
ing  hand,  "surely  this  disturbance  is  somewhat  outre,  a 
trifle  misplaced,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  bridal-chamber?'' 

Then  Gerald  Allonby  thrust  into  the  room,  followed 
by  Lord  Humphrey  Degge,1  my  abhorred  rival  for  Dor 
othy's  affection,  and  two  attendants. 

"My  grandmother!"  shrieks  Gerald.  "Villain,  what 
have  you  done  with  my  grandmother?" 

"The  query  were  more  fitly  put,"  Vanringham  retorts, 
"to  the  lady's  husband."  And  he  waves  his  hand  tow 
ard  me. 

And  thereupon  the  new-comers  unbound  me  with  vari 
ous  exclamations  of  wonder.  "And  now,"  I  observed,  "I 
would  suggest  that  you  bestow  upon  Mr.  Vanringham  and 
yonder  blot  upon  the  Church  of  England  the  bonds  from 
which  I  have  been  so  recently  ejected,  or,  at  the  very  least, 
keep  a  vigilant  watch  upon  those  more  than  suspicious 
characters,  what  time  I  narrate  the  surprising  events  of  the 
evening." 


VI 

Subsequently  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  affairs  to  Gerald 
and  Lord  Humphrey  Degge.  They  heard  me  with  atten- 

1  I  must  in  this  place  entreat  my  reader's  profound  discredit  of  any 
aspersions  I  may  rashly  seem  to  cast  upon  this  honest  gentleman,  whose 
friendship  I  to-day  esteem  as  invaluable;  but  I  wrote,  as  always,  cur- 
rente  calamo,  and  the  above  was  penned  in  an  amorous  misery,  sub 
Venere,  be  it  remembered;  and  in  such  cases  a  wrong  bias  is  easily 
hung  upon  the  mind. — F.  A. 

84 


tive,  even  sympathetic,  countenances;  but  presently  the 
face  of  Lord  Humphrey  brightened  as  he  saw  a  not  un- 
formidable  rival  thus  jockeyed  from  the  field ;  and  when  I 
had  ended,  Gerald  rose  and  with  an  oath  struck  his  open 
palm  upon  the  table. 

"This  is  the  most  fortunate  coincidence,"  he  swears, 
"that  I  have  ever  known  of.  I  come  prepared  to  find 
my  grandmother  the  wife  of  a  beggarly  play-actor,  and 
I  discover,  to  the  contrary,  that  she  has  contracted  an 
alliance  with  a  gentleman  for  whom  I  entertain  a  very 
sincere  affection." 

"Surely,"  I  cried,  aghast,  "you  cannot  deliberate  ac 
ceptance  of  this  iniquitous  and  inadvertent  match!" 

"What  is  your  meaning,  Captain  Audaine?"  says  the 
boy,  sharply.  "What  other  course  is  possible?" 

"O  Lord!"  said  I,  "after  to-night's  imbroglio  I  have 
nothing  to  observe  concerning  the  possibility  of  anything ; 
but  if  this  marriage  prove  a  legal  one,  I,  for  my  part,  am 
most  indissuadably  resolved  to  rectify  my  error  without 
delay  in  the  divorce  court." 

Now  Gerald's  brows  were  uglily  compressed.  "A  di 
vorce,"  said  he,  with  an  extreme  of  deliberation,  "means 
the  airing  of  to-night's  doings  in  the  open.  I  take  it,  'tis 
the  duty  of  a  man  of  honor  to  preserve  the  reputation  of 
his  grandmother  stainless;  whether  she  be  a  housemaid 
or  the  Queen  of  Portugal,  her  frailties  are  equally  en 
titled  to  endurance,  her  eccentricities  to  toleration:  can 
a  gentleman,  then,  sanction  any  proceeding  of  a  nature 
calculated  to  make  his  grandmother  the  laughing-stock 
of  England?  The  point  is  a  nice  one." 

"For,  conceive,"  said  Lord  Humphrey,  with  the  most 
knavish  grin  I  ever  knew  a  human  countenance  to  pollute 
itself  with,  "that  the  entire  matter  will  be  consigned  by 
the  short-hand  writers  to  the  public  press,  and  after  this 

85 


will  be  hawked  about  the  streets;  and  that  the  venders 
will  yell  particulars  of  your  grandmother's  folly  under 
your  very  windows;  and  that  you  must  hear  them  in 
impotence,  and  that  for  some  months  the  three  kingdoms 
will  hear  of  nothing  else.  Gad,  I  quite  feel  for  you,  my 
dear." 

"  I  have  fallen  into  a  nest  of  madmen,"  I  cried.  "  You 
know,  both  of  you,  how  profoundly  I  adore  Mr.  Gerald's 
sister,  the  accomplished  and  bewitching  Miss  Allonby; 
and  in  any  event,  I  demand  of  you,  as  rational  beings,  is 
it  equitable  that  I  be  fettered  for  life  to  an  old  woman's 
apron-strings  simply  because  a  doctor  of  divinity  is  par 
simonious  of  his  candles?" 

But  Gerald  had  drawn  with  a  flourish.  "  You  have  re 
pudiated  my  kinswoman,"  says  he,  "  and  you  cannot  deny 
me  the  customary  satisfaction.  Harkee,  my  fine  fellow, 
Dorothy  will  marry  my  friend  Lord  Humphrey  if  she 
will  be  advised  by  me ;  or,  if  she  prefer  it,  she  may  marry 
the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  or  the  piper  that  played  before 
Moses,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned :  but  as  for  you,  I  hereby 
offer  you  your  choice  between  quitting  this  apartment  as 
my  grandfather  or  as  a  corpse." 

" I  won't  fight  you!"  I  shouted.  "Keep  the  boy  off, 
Degge!"  But  when  the  infuriate  lad  rushed  upon  me, 
I  was  forced,  in  self -protection,  to  draw  likewise,  and 
after  a  brief  engagement  knocked  his  sword  across  the 
room. 

"Gerald,"  I  pleaded,  "for  the  love  of  God,  consider! 
I  cannot  fight  you.  Heaven  knows  this  tragic  farce  hath 
robbed  me  of  all  pretension  toward  your  sister,  and  that 
I  am  just  now  but  little  better  than  a  madman ;  yet  'tis 
her  blood  which  exhilarates  your  veins,  and  with  such 
dear  and  precious  fluid  I  cannot  in  reason  imbrue  my 
hands.  Nay,  you  are  no  swordsman,  lad — keep  off!" 

86 


And  there  I  had  blundered  irretrievably. 

"  No  swordsman !  By  God,  I  fling  the  words  in  your  face, 
Frank  Audaine !  must  I  send  the  candlestick  after  them  ?" 
And  within  the  instant  he  had  caught  up  his  weapon  and 
had  hurled  himself  upon  me,  in  an  abandoned  fury.  I 
had  not  moved.  The  boy  spitted  himself  upon  my  sword 
and  fell  with  a  horrid  gasping. 

"You  will  bear  me  witness,  Lord  Humphrey,"  said  I, 
"  that  the  quarrel  was  not  of  my  provokement. " 

But  at  this  juncture  the  outer  door  reopened  and 
Dorothy  tripped  into  the  room,  preceding  Lady  Allonby 
and  Mr.  George  Erwyn.  They  had  followed  in  the  fam 
ily  coach  to  dissuade  the  Marchioness  from  her  contem 
plated  match  by  force  or  by  argument,  as  the  cat  might 
jump;  and  so  it  came  about  that  my  dear  mistress  and 
I  stared  at  one  another  across  her  brother's  lifeless 
body. 

And  'twas  in  this  poignant  moment  I  first  saw  her 
truly.  In  a  storm  you  have  doubtless  had  some  utterly 
familiar  scene  leap  from  the  darkness,  under  the  lash  of 
lightning,  and  be  for  the  instant  made  visible  and  strange ; 
and  I  beheld  her  with  much  that  awful  clarity.  Formerly 
'twas  her  beauty  had  ensnared  me,  and  this  I  now  per 
ceived  to  be  a  fortuitous  and  happy  medley  of  color  and 
glow  and  curve,  indeed,  yet  nothing  more.  'Twas  the 
woman  I  loved,  not  her  trappings;  and  her  eyes  were  no 
more  part  of  her  than  were  the  jewels  in  her  ears.  But 
the  sweet  mirth  of  her,  the  brave  heart,  the  clean  soul, 
the  girl  herself,  how  good  and  generous  and  kind  and 
tender — 'twas  this  that  I  now  beheld,  and  knew  that  this, 
too,  was  lost; — and  in  beholding  the  little  love  of  yes 
terday  fled  whimpering  before  the  sacred  passion  which 
had  possessed  my  being.  And  I  began  to  laugh. 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "'twas  to-night  that  you  promised 

87 


(iallanirg 

me  your  answer,  and  to-night  you  observe  in  me  alike 
your  grandfather  and  your  brother's  murderer." 


VII 

Lady  Allonby  fell  to  wringing  her  hands,  but  Dorothy 
had  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  form  and  was  inspecting 
the  ravages  of  my  fratricidal  sword.  "O,  fy!  fy!"  says 
she  immediately,  and  wrinkles  her  saucy  nose;  "had 
none  of  you  the  sense  to  perceive  that  Gerald  was  tipsy  ? 
And  as  for  the  wound,  'tis  only  a  scratch  here  on  the  left 
shoulder.  Get  water,  somebody."  And  her  command 
being  obeyed,  she  cleansed  the  hurt  composedly  and 
bandaged  it  with  the  ruffle  of  her  petticoat. 

Meanwhile  we  hulking  men  stood  thick  about  her, 
fidgeting  and  foolishly  gaping  like  a  basket  of  fish;  and 
presently  a  sibilance  of  relief  went  about  our  circle  as 
Gerald  opened  his  eyes.  "Sister,"  says  he,  with  a  pro 
foundly  tragic  face,  "remember — remember  that  I  per 
ished  to  preserve  the  honor  of  our  family." 

"To  preserve  a  fiddlestick!"  said  my  adored  Dorothy. 
And,  rising,  she  confronted  me,  a  tinted  statuette  of  de 
cision.  "Now,  Frank,"  says  she,  "I  would  like  to  know 
the  meaning  of  this  nonsense." 

And  thereupon,  for  the  second  time,  I  recounted  the 
dreadful  and  huddled  action  of  the  night. 

And  when  I  had  ended,  "The  first  thing,"  says  she,  "is 
to  let  grandmother  out  of  that  room  within,  where  she  is 
growing  both  lonesome  and  eloquent.  And  the  second 
is  to  show  me  the  Parson."  This  was  done ;  the  Dowager 
entered  in  an  extremity  of  sulkiness,  and  the  Parson,  on 
being  pointed  out,  lowered  his  eyes  and  intensified  his 
complexion. 

88 


ffiasual  Ij0 

"  As  I  anticipated,"  says  my  charmer,  "  you  are,  one  and 
all,  a  parcel  of  credulous  infants.  Tis  a  parson,  indeed, 
but  merely  the  parson  out  of  Vanbrugh's  Relapse;  only 
last  Friday,  sir,  we  heartily  commended  your  fine  perform 
ance.  Why,  Frank,  the  man  is  a  play-actor,  not  a  priest. " 

"I  fancy,"  Mr.  Vanringham  here  interpolates,  "that  I 
owe  the  assembled  company  some  modicum  of  explana 
tion.  'Tis  true  that  at  the  beginning  of  our  friendship 
I  had  contemplated  matrimony  with  our  amiable  Mar 
chioness,  but,  I  confess,  'twas  the  lady's  property  rather 
than  her  person  which  was  the  allure.  And  reflection 
dissuaded  me;  a  legal  union  left  me,  a  young  and  not  un 
handsome  man,  irrevocably  fettered  to  an  old  woman; 
whereas  a  mock-marriage  afforded  an  eternal  option  to 
compound  the  match  —  for  a  consideration  —  with  the 
lady's  relatives,  to  whom  I  had  instinctively  divined  our 
union  would  prove  distasteful.  Accordingly  I  had  availed 
myself  of  my  colleague's  skill1  in  the  portrayal  of  clerical 
types  rather  than  resort  to  any  parson  whose  authority 
was  unrestricted  by  the  footlights.  And  accordingly— 

"And  accordingly  my  marriage,"  I  interrupted,  "is 
not  binding?" 

"I  can  assure  you,"  he  replied,  "that  you  might  trade 
your  lawful  right  in  the  lady  for  a  twopenny  whistle  and 
not  lose  by  the  bargain." 

"And  my  marriage?"  says  the  Marchioness — "the  mar 
riage  which  was  never  to  be  legalized! — 'twas  merely  that 
you  might  sell  me  afterward,  like  so  much  mutton,  was 
it ,  you  j  umping- j  ack — ! ' ' 

But  I  spare  you  her  ensuing  gloss  upon  this  text. 

The  man  heard  her  through,  without  a  muscle  twitch 
ing.  "  It  is  more  than  probable,"  he  eventually  conceded, 

1 1  witnessed  this  same  Quarmby's  hanging  in  1754,  and  for  a  bur 
glary  I  think,  with  an  extraordinary  relish. — F.  A. 

89 


(gallantry 

"  that  I  have  merited  each  and  every  fate  your  Ladyship 
is  pleased  to  invoke.  Indeed,  I  consider  the  extent  of 
your  distresses  to  be  equalled  only  by  that  of  your  vo 
cabulary.  Yet  by  ordinary  the  heart  of  woman  is  not 
obdurate,  and  upon  one  lady  here  I  have  some  claim- 
Dorothy  had  drawn  away  from  him,  with  an  odd  and 
frightened  cry.  "Not  upon  me,  sir!  I  never  saw  you 
except  across  the  footlights.  You  know  I  never  saw  you 
except  across  the  footlights,  Mr.  Vanringham!" 

Fixedly  he  regarded  her,  with  a  curious  yet  not  un- 
pleasing  smile.  "  I  am  the  more  unfortunate,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "  Nay,  'twas  to  Lady  Allonby  I  addressed  my  appeal. ' ' 
She  had  been  whispering  with  George  Erwyn,  but  now 
she  turned  toward  the  actor.  "Heavens!"  said  Lady 
Allonby,  "to  think  I  should  be  able  to  repay  you  this 
soon!  La,  of  course,  you  are  at  liberty,  Mr.  Vanringham, 
and  we  may  treat  the  whole  series  of  events  as  a  frolic 
suited  to  the  day.  For  I  am  under  obligations  to  you, 
and,  besides,  your  punishment  would  breed  a  scandal, 
and,  above  all,  anything  is  preferable  to  being  talked 
about — in  the  wrong  way,  you  understand." 

Having  reasons  of  my  own,  I  was  elated  by  the  upshot 
of  this  rather  remarkable  affair.  Yet  at  the  time,  I  con 
fess,  it  occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Vanringham  had  proven 
himself  not  entirely  worthy  of  unlimited  confidence.  I 
reflected,  however,  that  I  had  my  instructions,  and  that, 
if  a  bad  king  may  prove  a  good  husband,  a  knave  may 
surely  carry  a  letter  with  fidelity,  the  more  so  if  it  be  to 
his  interest  to  do  it. 


VIII 

I  rode  homeward  in  the  coach  with  Dorothy  at  my  side 
and  Gerald  recumbent  upon  the  front  seat, — where  after 

90 


(Casual   ffi 

ten  minutes'  driving  the  boy  in  philanthropic  fashion  fell 
noisily  asleep. 

"And  you  have  not,"  I  immediately  asserted — " after 
all,  you  have  not  given  me  the  answer  which  was  to-night 
to  decide  whether  I  of  all  mankind  be  the  most  fortunate 
or  the  most  miserable.  And  'tis  nearing  twelve." 

"What  choice  have  I?"  she  murmured;  "after  to-night 
is  it  not  doubly  apparent  that  you  need  some  one  to  take 
care  of  you?  And,  besides,  I  have  been  in  love  with  you 
for  three  whole  weeks." 

My  heart  stood  still.  And  shall  I  confess  that  for  an 
instant  my  wits,  too,  paused  to  play  the  gourmet  with  my 
emotions  ?  She  sat  beside  me  in  the  darkness,  you  under 
stand,  waiting,  mine  to  touch.  And  everywhere  the  world 
was  filled  with  beautiful,  kind  people,  and  overhead  God 
smiled  down  upon  His  world,  and  a  careless  seraph  had 
left  open  the  door  of  Heaven,  so  that  quite  a  deal  of  its 
splendor  flooded  the  world  about  us.  And  the  snoring 
of  Gerald  was  now  inaudible  because  of  a  stately  music 
which  was  playing  somewhere. 

"Frank — !"  she  breathed.  And  I  knew  that  her  lips 
were  no  less  tender  than  her  voice. 


tn 

As  PUyed  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  April  2,  1750 

"  Ye  gods,  why  are  not  hearts  first  paired  above, 
But  still  some  interfere  in  others'  love, 
Ere  each  for  each  by  certain  marks  are  known? 
You  mould  them  up  in  haste,  and  drop  them  down, 
And  while  we  seek  what  carelessly  you  sort, 
You  sit  in  state,  and  make  our  pains  your  sport." 


CAPTAIN  AUDAINE,  an  ingenious,  well-accomplished  gentle 
man. 

LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE,  an  airy  young  gentleman,  loves 
Miss  Allonby  for  her  money. 

VANRINGHAM,  emissary  and  confederate  of  Audaine. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  a  young  lady  of  wit  and  fortune. 
ATTENDANTS  to  Lord  Humphrey,  Etc. 

SCENE 

Tunbridge  Wells,  first  in  and  about  Lord  Humphrey's  lodg 
ings,  then  shifting  to  a  drawing-room  in  Lady  Allonby 's 
villa. 


t0 

PROEM:  —  Merely   to  Serve   as  Intermezzo 

IEXT  morning  Captain  Audaine  was  clos 
eted  with  Mr.  Vanringham  in  the  latter's 
apartments  at  the  Three  Gudgeons.  I 
abridge  the  Captain's  relation  of  their 
interview,  and  merely  tell  you  that  it 
ended  in  the  actor's  looking  up,  with  a 
puzzled  face,  from  a  certain  document. 

"You  might  have  let  me  have  a  whiff  of  this,"  Mr. 
Vanringham  began.  "You  might  have  breathed,  say,  a 
syllable  or  two  last  night— 

"  I  had  my  instructions,  sir,  but  yesterday,"  replied  the 
Captain;  "and  surely,  Mr.  Vanringham,  to  have  presumed 
last  night  upon  my  possession  of  this  paper,  so  far  as  to 
have  demanded  any  favor  of  you,  were  unreasonable, 
even  had  it  not  savored  of  cowardice.  For,  as  it  has  been 
very  finely  observed,  it  is  the  nicest  part  of  commerce  in 
the  world,  that  of  doing  and  receiving  benefits.  O  Lord, 
sir!  there  are  so  many  thousand  circumstances,  with  re 
spect  to  time,  person,  and  place,  which  either  heighten  or 
allay  the  value  of  the  obligation— 

"I  take  your  point,"  said  the  other,  with  some  haste, 
"  and  concede  that  you  are,  beyond  any  reasonable  doubt, 
in  the  right.  Within  the  hour  I  am  off." 

' '  Then  all  is  well ,"  said  Captain  Audaine .    Nevertheless , 
the  opinion  of  fate  did  not  entirely  coincide  with  his,  so  that 
»  95 


(gallantrg 

I  subjoin  his  own  account  of  what  befell,  though  somewhat 
later  in  the  day. 


In  fact  'twas  hard  upon  ten  in  the  evening  (the  Cap 
tain  estimates)  when  I  left  Lady  Culcheth's,1  and  I  pro 
test  that  at  the  time  there  was  not  a  happier  man  in  all 
Tunbridge  than  Francis  Audaine. 

"You  haven't  the  king?"  Miss  Allonby  was  saying,  as 
I  made  my  adieus  to  the  company.  "Then  I  play  queen, 
knave,  and  ace,  which  gives  me  the  game,  Lord  Humphrey. ' ' 

And  afterward  she  shuffled  the  cards  and  flashed  across 
the  room  a  glance  whose  brilliance  shamed  the  tawdry 
candles  about  her,  and,  as  you  can  readily  conceive, 
roused  a  prodigious  trepidation  in  my  adoring  breast. 

"Dorothy! — O,  Dorothy!"  I  said  over  and  over  again 
when  I  had  reached  the  street;  and  so  went  homeward 
with  constant  repetitions  of  her  dear  name. 

I  suppose  it  was  an  idiotic  piece  of  business;  but  you 
are  to  remember  that  I  loved  her  with  an  entire  heart, 
and  that,  as  yet,  I  could  scarcely  believe  the  confession 
of  a  reciprocal  attachment,  which  I  had  wrung  from  her 
overnight,  to  the  accompaniment  of  Gerald's  snoring,  had 
been  other  than  an  unusually  delectable  and  audacious 
dream  upon  the  part  of  Frank  Audaine. 

I  found  it,  then,  as  I  went  homeward,  a  heady  joy  to 
ponder  on  her  loveliness.  O,  the  wonder  of  her  voice, 
that  is  a  love-song!  cried  my  heart.  O,  the  candid  eyes 

1  Sir  Henry  Muskerry's  daughter,  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken, 
and  by  common  consent  an  estimable  lady  and  a  person  of  fine  wit; 
but  my  infatuation  for  Lady  Betty  had  by  this  time,  as  is  previously 
recorded,  been  puffed  out;  and  this  fortunate  extinction,  through  the 
affair  of  the  broken  snuffbox,  had  left  me  now  entirely  indifferent  to 
all  her  raptures,  panegyrics,  and  premeditated  artlessnesses. — F.  A. 


of  her,  more  beautiful  than  the  June  heavens,  more  blue 
than  the  very  bluest  speedwell-flower!  O,  the  tilt  of  her 
tiny  chin,  and  the  incredible  gold  of  her  hair,  and  the 
quite  unbelievable  pink-and-white  of  her  little  flower-soft 
face!  And  O,  the  scrap  of  crimson  that  is  her  mouth. 

In  a  word,  my  pulses  throbbed  with  a  sort  of  divine 
insanity,  and  Frank  Audaine  was  as  much  out  of  his 
senses  as  any  madman  now  in  Bedlam,  and  as  deliciously 
perturbed  as  any  lover  is  by  ordinary  when  he  meditates 
upon  the  object  of  his  affections. 

But  there  was  other  work  than  sonneting  afoot  that 
night,  which  shortly  I  set  about.  Yet  such  was  my 
felicity  that  I  found  myself  singing  over  it.  Yes,  it 
rang  in  my  ears,  somehow,  that  silly  old  Scotch  song, 
and  under  my  breath  I  hummed  odd  snatches  of  it  as  I 
went  about  the  business. 

Sang  I: 

"Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer  ? 

King  James  the  Seventh  had  ae  daughter, 
And  he  gave  her  to  an  Granger. 

"  Ken  ye  how  he  requited  him  ? 
Ken  ye  how  he  requited  him  ? 

The  dog  has  into  England  come, 
And  ta'en  the  crown  in  spite  of  him! 

"The  rogue  he  salna  keep  it  lang, 
To  budge  we'll  make  him  fain  again; 

We  '11  hang  him  high  upon  a  tree, 
And  King  James  shall  hae  his  ain  again!" 


II 

Well!    matters  went   smoothly  enough   at  the   start. 
With  a  diamond  Vanringham  dexterously  cut  out  a  pane 

97 


of  glass,  so  that  we  had.  little  difficulty  in  opening  the 
window ;  and  presently  I  climbed  into  a  room  black  as  a 
pocket,  leaving  him  without  as  sentinel,  since,  so  far  as  I 
could  detect,  the  house  was  now  un tenanted. 

But  some  twenty  minutes  later,  when  I  had  finally 
succeeded  in  forcing  the  escritoire  I  found  in  the  back 
room  upon  the  second  story,  I  heard  the  street  door 
unclose.  You  can  conceive  that  'twas  with  no  pleasura 
ble  anticipation  I  peered  into  the  hall,  for  I  was  fairly 
trapped.  There  I  saw  some  five  or  six  men  of  an  ugly 
aspect,  who  carried  a  burden  among  them,  the  nature  of 
which  I  could  not  determine  in  the  uncertain  light.  But 
I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  they  bore  their  cargo  past  me, 
to  the  front  room,  which  opened  on  the  one  I  occupied, 
and  without  apparent  recognition  of  my  presence. 

"Now,"  thinks  I,  "is  the  time  for  my  departure." 
And  selecting  such  papers  as  I  had  need  of  from  the  rifled 
desk,  I  was  about  to  run  for  it,  when  I  heard  a  well- 
known  voice. 

"Rat  the  parson!"  it  cried;  "he  should  have  been  here 
an  hour  ago.  Here's  the  door  left  open  for  him,  endanger 
ing  the  whole  venture,  and  whey-face  han't  plucked  up 
heart  to  come!  Do  some  of  you  rogues  fetch  him  with 
out  delay,  and  do  all  of  you  meet  me  to-morrow  at  the 
Mitre,  to  be  paid  in  full." 

"Here,"  thinks  I,  "is  beyond  doubt  a  romance."  And 
as  the  men  tumbled  down -stairs  and  into  the  street  I 
resolved  to  see  the  adventure  through. 

I  waited  for  perhaps  ten  minutes,  during  which  period 
I  was  aware  of  divers  movements  near  at  hand,  and, 
judging  that  in  any  case  there  was  but  one  man's  anger 
to  be  apprehended,  I  crept  toward  the  intervening  door 
and  found  it  luckily  ajar. 

So  I  peered  through  the  crack  into  the  adjoining  room 

98 


and  there,  as  I  had  anticipated,  discovered  Lord  Hum 
phrey  Degge,  whom  I  had  last  seen  at  Lady  Culcheth's 
wrangling  over  a  game  of  ecarte  with  the  fairest  antagonist 
the  universe  could  afford — to  wit,  Miss  Allonby. 

Just  now  my  Lord  was  in  a  state  of  high  emotion,  and 
the  cause  of  it  was  evident  when  I  perceived  his  ruffians 
had  borne  into  the  house  a  swooning  lady,  whom  merciful 
unconsciousness  had  happily  rendered  oblivious  to  her 
present  surroundings,  and  whose  wrists  his  Lordship  was 
vigorously  slapping  in  the  intervals  between  his  frequent 
applications  to  her  nostrils  of  a  flask,  which,  as  I  more 
lately  learned,  contained  sal  volatile. 

Here  was  an  unlucky  turn,  since  I  had  no  desire  to 
announce  my  whereabouts,  my  business  in  the  house 
being  of  a  sort  that  necessitated  secrecy;  whereas,  upon 
the  other  hand,  I  could  not  but  misdoubt  my  Lord's 
intention  toward  the  unknown  fair  was  of  discreditable 
kinship,  and  such  as  a  gentleman  might  not  countenance 
with  self-esteem. 

Accordingly  I  availed  myself  of  the  few  moments  dur 
ing  which  the  lady  was  recovering  from  her  swoon,  and 
devoted  them  to  serious  reflection  concerning  the  course 
I  should  preferably  adopt. 

Finally,  Miss  came  to,  and,  as  is  the  custom  of  all 
females  similarly  situated,  rubbed  her  eyes  and  said, 
"Where  am  I?" 

And  when  she  rose  from  the  divan  I  saw  that  'twas  my 
adored  Dorothy. 

"In  the  presence  of  your  infatuated  slave,"  says  my 
Lord.  "Ah,  divine  Miss  Allonby — !" 

But  being  now  aware  of  her  deplorable  circumstances, 
she  began  to  weep,  and,  in  spite  of  the  amorous  rhetoric 
with  which  his  Lordship  was  prompt  to  comfort  her,  re 
buked  him  for  unmanly  conduct,  with  sublimity  and  fire, 

99 


(SaUanlrg 

and  depicted  the  horrors  of  her  present  predicament  in 
terms  that  were  both  just  and  elegant. 

From  their  disjointed  talk  I  soon  determined  that, 
Lord  Humphrey's  suit  being  rejected  by  my  angel,  he 
had  laid  a  trap  for  her  (by  bribing  her  coachman,  as  I 
subsequently  learned),  and  had  so  far  succeeded  in  his 
nefarious  scheme  that  she,  on  leaving  Lady  Culcheth's, 
had  been  driven  to  this  house,  in  the  conviction  she  rode 
homeward;  and  this  course  my  Lord  endeavored  to  jus 
tify,  with  a  certain  eloquence,  and  attributed  the  irregu 
larity  of  his  behavior  solely  to  the  colossal  vehemence  of 
his  affection. 

His  oratory,  however,  was  of  little  avail,  for  Dorothy 
told  him  plainly  that  she  had  rather  hear  the  protesta 
tions  of  a  toad  than  listen  to  his  far  more  nauseous  flat 
tery,  and  bade  him  at  once  restore  her  to  her  natural 
guardians. 

"Ma  charmante,"  said  he,  "to-morrow  your  good  step 
mother  may,  if  you  will,  share  with  your  husband  the 
privilege  of  saluting  Lady  Dorothy  Degge;  but  as  for 
Miss  Allonby,  I  question  if  in  the  future  her  dearest  friends 
are  likely  to  see  much  of  her." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cries  she. 

"That  the  parson  will  be  here  directly,"  says  he. 

"Infamous!"  she  observes.  "Do  you  intend  to  marry 
me,  then,  by  force?" 

"What  else?"  says  my  Lord,  grinning,  and  thereupon 
Dorothy  began  to  scream  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

I  doubt  if  any  man  of  honor  was  ever  placed  under  a 
more  great  embarrass.  Yonder  was  the  object  of  my 
devotion,  exposed  to  all  the  diabolical  machinations  of  a 
heartless  villain,  and  here  was  I  concealed  in  my  Lord's 
library,  his  desk  broken  open,  and  his  papers  in  my 
pocket.  To  remain  quiet  was  impossible,  since  'twas  to 

100 


Slfgm?  in 

expose  her  to  a  fate  worse  than  death;  yet  to  reveal 
myself  was  to  confess  Frank  Audaine  a  thief,  and  to  lose 
her  perhaps  beyond  redemption.  ' 

Then  I  thought  of  the  mask  I  had  brought  in 'case  of 
emergency,  and,  clapping  it  od/ resolved*  to  brazen  out 
the  matter,  since  there  was  a  chance— t he' barest  chan'ce* — 
that  in  their  present  state  of  emotion  and  the  half-light 
of  the  apartment  neither  would  possess  the  ability  to 
recognize  me. 

Meanwhile  I  saw  all  notions  of  gallantry  turned  topsy 
turvy,  for  my  Lord  was  laughing  quietly,  while  my 
adored  Dorothy  called  aloud  upon  the  name  of  her 
Maker. 

"The  neighborhood  is  not  unaccustomed  to  such 
sounds,"  said  he,  "and  I  hardly  think  we  need  fear  any 
interruption.  I  must  tell  you,  my  dear  creature,  you 
have,  by  an  evil  chance,  arrived  in  a  most  evil  locality, 
for  this  quarter  of  the  town  is  the  devil's  own  country, 
and  he  is  scarcely  like  to  make  you  free  of  it." 

"O  Lord,  sir!"  said  I,  and  pushed  the  door  wide  open, 
"surely  you  forget  that  the  devil  is  a  gentleman?" 


Ill 

Had  I  dropped  a  hand-grenade  into  the  apartment 
the  astonishment  of  its  occupants  would  not  have  been 
excessive.  My  Lord's  face,  as  he  clapped  his  hand  to 
his  sword,  was  neither  tranquil  nor  altogether  agreeable 
to  contemplate ;  and  as  for  Dorothy,  she  gave  a  frightened 
little  cry,  and  ran  toward  the  masked  intruder  with  a 
piteous  confidence  which  wrung  my  heart. 

"The  devil!"  says  my  Lord. 

"Not  precisely,"  I  amended,  and  bowed  in  my  best 

IOI 


(SaUantrg 

manner,  "  though  'tis  undeniable  I  come  to  act  as  Satan's 
representative." 

"Q,,  joy  to  your  success!"  his  Lordship  sneered. 

"Harkee,  sir,"  said  I,  and  courteously,  "as  you,  with 
perfect;  justice;  ;hftve  stated,  this  is  the  devil's  stronghold, 
anld^hereafouts  his 'wiiHs' paramount;  and, as  I  have  had 
the  honor  to  add,  the  devil  is  a  gentleman.  Sure,  and  as 
such,  he  cannot  possibly  be  expected  to  countenance  your 
present  behavior  ?  Nay,  never  fear !  Lucifer,  already  up 
to  the  ears  in  the  affairs  of  this  mundane  sphere,  lacks 
leisure  to  express  his  disapproval  in  sulphuric  person. 
He  tenders  his  apologies,  sir,  and  sends  in  his  stead  your 
servant,  with  whose  capabilities  he  is  indifferently  ac 
quainted." 

"  To  drop  this  mummery,"  says  Lord  Humphrey,  "  what 
are  you  doing  in  my  lodgings  ?" 

"O  Lord,  sir!"  I  responded,  "I  came  thither,  I  con 
fess,  without  invitation.  And  with  equal  candor  I  will 
admit  that  my  present  need  is  of  your  Lordship's  table 
ware  and  jewels,  and  such-like  trifles,  rather  than — you 
force  me,  sir,  to  say  it  —  rather  than  of  your  com 
pany." 

Thus  speaking,  I  drew  and  placed  myself  on  guard, 
while  my  Lord  gasped. 

"You're  the  most  impudent  rogue,"  says  he,  after  he 
had  recovered  himself  a  little,  "that  I  have  ever  had  the 
privilege  of  meeting — " 

"Your  Lordship  is  all  kindness,"  I  protested. 

" — but  your  impudence  is  worth  the  price  of  whatever 
you  may  have  pilfered.  Go,  my  good  man — or  devil,  if 
you  so  prefer  to  style  yourself!  Tell  Lucifer  that  he  is 
well  served,  and  obligingly  depart  for  the  infernal  regions 
without  delay.  For,  as  you  have  doubtless  learned,  Miss 
and  I  have  many  private  matters  to  discuss.  And,  gad, 

102 


ia 

Mr.  Moloch,1  pleasant  as  is  your  conversation,  you  must 
acknowledge  I  can't  allow  evil  spirits  about  the  house 
without  getting  it  an  ill  reputation.  So  pardon  me  if  I 
exorcise  you  with  this." 

He  spoke  boldly,  and,  as  he  ended,  tossed  me  a  purse. 
I  let  it  lie  where  it  fell,  for  I  had  by  no  means  ended  my 
argtiment. 

"Yet,  sir,"  said  I,  "my  errand,  which  began  with  the 
acquisition  of  goblets,  studs,  and  such,  now  reaches  to 
that  of  a  treasure  far  more  precious — 

"  Enough!"  he  cried,  impatiently.  "  Begone,  and  render 
thanks  my  present  business  is  of  such  urgent  nature  as  to 
prevent  my  furnishing  the  rope  which  will  one  day  adorn 
your  neck." 

"  That's  as  may  be,"  quoth  I ;  "  and,  indeed,  I  doubt  if  I 
could  abide  drowning,  for  'tis  a  damp,  unwholesome,  and 
excessively  perdurable  death.  But  my  fixed  purpose,  to 
cut  short  all  debate,  is  to  escort  Miss  Allonby  homeward." 

"Come,"  sneers  my  Lord — "come,  Mr.  Moloch,  I  have 
borne  with  your  insolence  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour — 

"Twenty  minutes,"  said  I,  after  consulting  my  watch. 

" — but  I  mean  to  put  up  with  it  no  longer,  and  in 
consequence  I  take  the  boorish  liberty  of  suggesting  that 
this  is  none  of  your  affair." 

"Good  sir,"  I  conceded;  "your  Lordship  speaks  with 
considerable  justice,  and  we  must  in  common  decency 
leave  the  final  decision  to  Miss  here." 

I  bowed  toward  her.  In  her  face  there  was  a  curious 
bewilderment  that  made  me  fear  lest,  for  all  my  mask,  for 

1  A  deity  of,  I  believe,  Ammonitish  origin.  His  traditional  character 
as  represented  by  our  immortal  Milton  is  both  taking  to  the  fancy  and 
finely  romantic;  and  is,  as  I  am  informed,  while  profuse  in  happy  turns 
of  speech,  conformable  throughout  to  the  most  approved  legends  of 
Talmudic  fabrication. — F.  A. 

IQ3 


(gallatttrg 

all  my  feigned  and  bungling  intonations,  Dorothy  at  least 
suspected  my  identity.  And  as  I  spoke  the  apprehension 
turned  me  sick. 

"Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  in  a  falsetto  voice  which  trem 
bled,  "since  I  am  unknown  to  you,  may  I  trust  you  will 
permit  me  to  present  myself  ?  My  name — though,  indeed, 
I  have  a  multitude  of  names — is  for  the  occasion  Frederick 
Thomasson.  With  my  father's  appellation  and  estates  I 
cannot  accommodate  you,  inasmuch  as  a  certain  mystery 
attaches  to  his  identity.  As  for  my  mother,  suffice  it  to 
say  that  she  was  a  vivacious  brunette  of  a  large  acquaint 
ance,  and  generally  known  to  the  public  as  Miss  Mary 
Waters. 

"I  began  life  as  a  pickpocket.  Since  then  I  have  so 
far  improved  my  natural  gifts  that  the  police  are  flatter 
ing  enough  to  value  my  person  at  several  hundred  pounds. 
My  rank  in  society,  as  you  perceive,  is  not  exalted ;  yet, 
if  you  choose  to  lodge  information,  I  do  not  question  that 
I  shall  on  some  subsequent  Friday  move  in  far  loftier 
circles  than  any  nobleman  who  chances  at  the  time  to  be 
on  Tyburn  Hill. 

"But  to  dispense  with  my  poor  self. — My  Lord  is  a 
gentleman  of  breeding  and  is  well-known  at  Court;  he  is 
accounted  a  fairly  good  match.  Incidentally,  he  is  a 
scoundrel.  But  since  by  this  late  hour  Lady  Allonby 
beyond  doubt  grows  uneasy,  let  us  have  done  with  further 
exposition,  and  remember  that  'tis  high  time  you  selected 
an  escort  to  her  residence.  May  I  implore  you  choose 
between  Lord  Humphrey  and  myself,  who  chance  to  be 
the  only  persons  available?" 

She  looked  us  over — first  one,  then  the  other.  More 
lately  she  laughed;  and  if  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  I 
could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  love  her  for  the  sweet 
insolence  of  her  mirth  alone. 

104 


tn  Po 

"After  all,"  said  my  adored  Dorothy,  "I  prefer  the 
rogue  who  when  he  goes  about  his  knaveries  has  at  least 
the  decency  to  wear  a  mask." 

"That,  my  Lord,"  said  I,  "is  fairly  conclusive;  and  so 
we  will  be  journeying." 

"Over  my  dead  body!"  says  he. 

"Sure,  and  what's  beneath  the  feet,"  I  protested,  "is 
equally  beneath  the  consideration." 

The  witticism  stung  him  like  a  wasp,  and,  with  an  oath, 
he  drew,  as  I  was  heartily  glad  to  observe,  for  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  when  it  comes  to  the  last  pinch,  dnd 
one  gentleman  is  excessively  annoyed  by  the  existence  of 
another,  steel  is  your  only  arbiter,  and  charitable  allow 
ances  for  the  dead  your  rational  peroration.  So  we  crossed 
blades,  and,  pursuing  my  usual  tactics,  I  began  upon  a  flow 
of  words,  which  course,  as  I  have  learned  by  old  experi 
ence,  is  apt  to  disconcert  an  adversary  far  more  than  any 
trick  of  the  sword  can  do. 

I  pressed  him  sorely,  and  he  continued  to  give  way, 
but  clearly  for  tactical  purposes,  and  without  permitting 
the  bright  flash  of  steel  that  protected  him  to  swerve  an 
instant  from  the  proper  line. 

"Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  growing  impatient,  "have  you 
never  seen  a  venomous  insect  pinned  to  the  wall?  In 
that  case,  I  pray  you  to  attend  more  closely.  For  one 
has  only  to  parry — thus!  And  to  thrust — in  this  fashion! 
And  behold,  the  thing  is  done!" 

In  fact,  having  been  run  through  the  chest,  my  Lord 
was  for  the  moment  affixed  to  the  panelling  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  apartment,  where  he  writhed,  much  in  the 
manner  of  a  cockchafer  whom  mischievous  urchins  have 
pinned  to  a  card, — his  mien  and  gesticulation  being,  to 
the  contrary,  very  suggestive  of  the  torments  of  the 
damned  as  they  are  so  strikingly  depicted  by  the  Italian 

105 


tf&Utttttrg 

Dante.1  He  tumbled  in  a  heap,  though,  when  I  sheathed 
my  sword  and  bowed  toward  my  charmer. 

"Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  "it  may  be  that  you  are 
expected?" 

She  had  watched  the  combat  with  staring  and  frightened 
eyes.  Now  she  had  drawn  nearer,  and  looked  curiously 
at  my  Lord  where  he  had  fallen. 

"Have  you  killed  him?"  she  asked,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"O  Lord,  no!"  I  protested.  "The  life  of  a  peer's  son 
is  too  valuable  a  matter ;  he  will  be  little  the  worse  for  it 
in  a  week." 

"The  dog!"  cries  she,  overcome  with  pardonable  indig 
nation  at  the  affront  which  the  misguided  nobleman  had 
put  upon  her;  and  afterward  with  a  ferocity  the  more 
astounding  in  an  individual  whose  demeanor  was  by  ordi 
nary  of  an  aspect  so  amiable  and  so  engaging,  she  rather 
viciously  said,  "Kill  him!" 

"My  adorable  Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  "do  not,  I  pray 
you,  thus  slander  the  canine  species!  And,  meanwhile, 
permit  me  to  remind  you  that  'tis  inexpedient  to  loiter 
in  these  parts,  for  the  parson  will  presently  be  at  hand; 
and  if  it  be  to  inter  rather  than  to  marry  Lord  Humphrey 
— well,  after  all,  the  peerage  is  a  populous  estate!" 

"Come!"  said  she,  and  took  my  arm;  and  together 
we  went  down-stairs  and  into  the  street. 


IV 

On  the  way  homeward  she  spoke  never  a  word.  Van- 
ringham  had  taken  to  his  heels  when  my  Lord's  people 

1  I  allude,  of  course,  to  the  famous  Florentine,  who  excels  no  less  in 
his  detailed  depictions  of  infernal  anguish  than  in  his  eloquent  por 
trayal  of  the  graduated  and  equitable  emoluments  of  an  eternal 
glorification. — F.  A. 

1 06 


fa 

arrived,  so  that  we  saw  nothing  of  him.  But  when  we 
had  come  safely  to  Lady  Allonby's  villa,  on  a  sudden 
Dorothy  began  to  laugh,  although  not  mirthfully. 

"Captain  Audaine,"  says  she,  in  a  wearied,  scornful 
voice,  "  I  know  that  the  hour  is  very  late,  yet  there  are 
certain  matters  to  be  settled  between  us  which  will,  I 
think,  scarcely  admit  of  delay.  I  pray  you,  then,  grant 
me  ten  minutes'  conversation." 

She  had  known  me  all  along,  you  see.  Trust  the  dullest 
women  to  play  QEdipus  when  love  sets  the  riddle.  So 
there  was  nothing  to  do  save  clap  my  mask  into  my 
pocket  and  follow  her,  sheepishly  enough,  toward  one  of 
the  salons,  where  at  Dorothy's  solicitation  a  gaping  foot 
man  made  a  light  for  us. 

She  left  me  there  to  kick  my  heels  through  a  solitude 
of  some  moments'  extent.  But  presently  my  dear  mis 
tress  came  into  the  room,  her  arms  full  of  trinkets  and 
knick-nacks,  which  she  flung  upon  a  table. 

"Here's  your  ring,  Captain  Audaine,"  says  she,  and 
drew  it  from  her  finger.  "  I  did  not  wear  it  long,  did  I  ? 
And  here's  the  miniature  you  gave  me,  too.  I  used  to 
kiss  it  every  night,  you  know.  And  here's  a  flower  you 
dropped  at  Lady  Pevensey's.  I  picked  it  up — O,  very 
secretly!  —  because  you  had  worn  it,  you  understand. 
And  here's—" 

But  at  this  point  she  fairly  broke  down;  and  she  cast 
her  round  white  arms  about  the  heap  of  trinkets,  and 
strained  them  close  to  her,  and  bowed  her  imperious 
golden  head  above  them  in  anguish. 

"O,  how  I  loved  you — how  I  loved  you!"  she  sobbed. 
"And  all  the  while  you  were  only  a  common  thief!" 

"Dorothy—!"  I  pleaded. 

"You  shame  me — you  shame  me  past  utterance!"  she 
cried,  in  a  storm  of  mingled  tears  and  laughter.  "  Here's 

107 


(gallantry 

this  bold  Captain  Audaine,  who  conies  to  Tunbridge  from 
nobody  knows  where,  and  wins  a  maid's  love,  and  proves 
in  the  end  but  a  beggarly  house-breaker!  Mr.  Garrick 
might  make  a  mirthful  comedy  of  this,  might  he  not?" 
Then  she  rose  to  her  feet  very  stiffly.  "Take  your  gifts, 
Mr.  Thief,"  says  she,  pointing — "take  them.  And  for 
God's  sake  let  me  not  see  you  again!" 

So  I  was  forced  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
"Dorothy,"  said  I,  "ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer?" 
But   she   only,  stared   at   me   through   unshed   tears. 
Presently,  though,  I  hummed  over  the  old  song: 

"Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer  ? 

King  James  the  Seventh  had  ae  daughter, 
And  he  gave  her  to  an  Granger. 

"And  the  Granger  filched  his  crown,"  said  I,  "and 
drove  King  James — God  bless  him! — out  of  his  kingdom. 
This  was  a  long  time  ago,  my  dear;  but  Dutch  William 
left  the  stolen  crown  to  Anne,  and  Anne,  in  turn,  left  it 
to  German  George.  So  that  now  the  Elector  of  Hanover 
reigns  at  St.  James's,  while  the  true  King's  son  skulks  in 
France,  with  never  a  roof  to  shelter  him.  And  there  are 
certain  gentlemen,  Dorothy,  who  do  not  consider  that 
this  is  right." 

' '  You  are  a  Jacobite  ?' '  said  she.  ' '  Well !  and  what  have 
your  politics  to  do  with  the  matter?" 

"Simply  that  Lord  Humphrey  is  not  of  my  way  of 
thinking,  my  dearest  dear.  Lord  Humphrey — pah! — this 
Degge  is  Ormskirk's  spy,  I  tell  you!  He  followed  Van- 
ringham  to  Tunbridge  on  account  of  our  premeditated 
business.  And  to-day,  when  Vanringham  set  out  for 
Avignon,  he  was  stopped  a  mile  from  the  Wells  by  a  couple 
of  Lord  Humphrey's  fellows,  disguised  as  highwaymen, 

1 08 


Jlljgme   tn  Jfnrringrr 

and  all  his  papers  stolen.  To-morrow  they  would  have 
been  in  Ormskirk's  hands.  And  then —  I  paused  to 
allow  myself  a  whistle. 

She  came  a  little  toward  me,  in  the  prettiest  possible 
glow  of  bewilderment.  "I — I  do  not  understand,"  she 
murmured.  "  O,  Frank,  Frank,  for  the  love  of  God, 
beware  of  Vanringham!  And  you  are  not  a  thief,  after 
all?  Are  you  really  not  named  Thomasson?" 

"I  am  most  assuredly  not  Frederick  Thomasson,"  said 
I,  "nor  do  I  know  if  any  such  person  exists,  for  I  never 
heard  the  name  before  to-night.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  I 
am  an  unmitigated  thief.  Why,  d'ye  not  understand? 
What  Vanringham  carried  was  a  petition  from  some  two 
hundred  Scotch  and  English  gentlemen  that  our  gracious 
Prince  Charlie  be  pleased  to  come  over  and  take  back  his 
own  from  the  Elector.  'Twas  rebellion,  flat  rebellion, 
and  the  very  highest  treason!  Had  Ormskirk  seen  the 
paper,  within  a  month  all  our  heads  had  been  blackening 
over  Temple  Bar.  So  I  stole  it — I,  Francis  Audaine, 
stole  it  in  the  King's  cause,  God  bless  him!  'Twas 
burglary,  no  less,  but  it  saved  two  hundred  lives,  my  own 
included ;  and  I  look  to  be  a  deal  older  than  I  am  before 
I  regret  the  exploit  with  any  sincerity." 

Afterward  I  showed  her  the  papers,  and  then  burned 
them  one  by  one  over  a  candle.  She  said  nothing.  So 
presently  I  turned  toward  her  with  a  little  bow. 

" Madam,"  said  I,  "you  have  forced  my  secret  from 
me.  I  know  that  your  family  is  staunch  on  the  Whig 
side;  and  yet,  ere  the  thief  goes,  may  he  not  trust  you 
will  ne'er  betray  him?" 

And  now  she  came  to  me,  all  penitence  and  dimples. 

"But  you  said  you  were  a  thief,"  my  dear  mistress 
pointed  out. 

"O  Lord,  madam!"  said  I,  "  'twas  very  necessary  that 

109 


Degge  shotild  think  me  so !  A  house-breaker  they  would 
have  only  hanged,  but  a  Jacobite  they  would  have 
hanged  and  quartered  afterward." 

"Ah,  forgive  me! — forgive  me!"  she  wailed. 

And  I  was  about  to  do  so  in  what  I  considered  the  most 
agreeable  and  appropriate  manner  when  the  madcap 
broke  away  from  me,  and  sprang  upon  a  footstool  and 
waved  her  fan  defiantly. 

"  Down  with  the  Elector!"  she  cried,  in  her  high,  sweet 
voice.  "Long  live  King  James!" 

And  then,  with  a  most  lovely  wildness  of  mien,  she  began 
to  sing: 

"Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer  ? 

King  James  the  Seventh  had  ae  daughter — " 

until  I  interrupted  her.     For,  "  Extraordinary  creature!" 
I  pleaded,  as  plainly  as  my  laughter  would  permit,  "you 
will  rouse  the  house." 

"  I  don't  care!  I  will  be  a  Jacobite  if  you  are  one!" 
"Eh,  well,"  said  I,  "Frank  Audaine  is  not  the  man  to 
coerce  his  wife  in  a  political  matter.  Nevertheless,  I 
know  of  a  certain  Jacobite  who  is  not  unlikely  to  have  a 
bad  time  of  it  if  by  any  chance  Lord  Humphrey  recog 
nized  him  to-night.  Nay,  Miss,  you  may  live  to  be  a 
widow  yet." 

"But  he  didn't  recognize  you.  And  if  he  did" — she 
snapped  her  fingers — "why,  we'll  fight  him  again,  you 
and  I.  Won't  we,  my  dear?  For  he  stole  our  secret, 
you  know.  And  he  stole  me,  too.  Very  pretty  behavior, 
wasn't  it?"  And  here  Miss  Allonby  stamped  the  tiniest, 
the  most  infinitesimal  of  red-heeled  slippers. 

"The  rogue  he  didna  keep  me  lang, 
To  budge  we  made  him  fain  again— 
no 


2tJjym£ 


"that's  you,  Frank,  and  your  great,  long  sword.     And 
now: 

"We'll  hang  him  high  upon  a  tree, 
And  King  Frank  shall  hae  his  ain  again!" 

Afterward  my  adored  Dorothy  jumped  from  the  foot 
stool,  and  came  toward  me,  lifting  up  the  crimson  trifle 
that  she  calls  her  mouth.  "  So  take  your  own,  my  king," 
she  breathed,  with  a  wonderful  gesture  of  surrender. 

And  a  gentleman  could  do  no  less. 


All 

As  Played  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  April  3,  (750 

"I  am  thinking  if  some  little,  filching,  inquisitive  poet 
should  get  my  story,  and  represent  it  to  the  stage,  what  those 
ladies  who  are  never  precise  but  at  a  play  would  say  of  me 
now — that  I  were  a  confident,  coming  piece,  I  warrant,  and 
they  would  damn  the  poor  poet  for  libelling  the  sex." 


Iramatta 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

COLONEL  DENSTROUDE,     j 

SIR  GRESLEY  CARNE,        V  Gentlemen  of  the  town. 

MR.  BABINGTON-HERLE,   ) 

VANRINGHAM,  a  play-actor  and  a  Jacobite  emissary. 

MR.  LANGTON,  secretary  to  Ormskirk. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  an  heiress,  loves  Captain  Audaine. 
BARBARA,  maid  to  Miss  Allonby. 

BENYON,  MINCHIN,  and  OTHER  SERVANTS  to  Ormskirk. 

SCENE 

Tunbridge  Wells,  shifting  from  Ormskirk 's  lodgings  at  the 
Mitre  to  Vanringham's  apartments  in  the  Three  Gudgeons. 


All 


PROEM:—  To  Explain    Why   the  Heroine  of   This    Comedy  Must    Wear 

Her  Best 

NOW  quit  pilfering  from  the  writings  of 
Francis  Audaine,  since  in  the  attendant 
happenings  which  immediately  concern 
us  he  plays  but  a  subsidiary  part.  The 
Captain  had  an  utter  faith  in  decorum, 
_  and  therefore  it  was,  as  he  records,  an 

earth^staggering  shock  when  the  following  day,  on  the 
Pantiles,  in  full  sight  of  the  major  part  of  the  company 
at  the  Wells,  Captain  Audaine  was  apprehended.  He 
met  disaster  like  an  old  acquaintance,  and  hummed  a 
scrap  of  song—  "0,  gin  I  were  a  bonny  bird"  —and 
shrugged,  but  when  Miss  Allonby,  with  whom  he  had 
been  chatting,  swayed  and  fell,  the  Captain  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  standing  thus,  turned  angrily  upon  the 
emissaries  of  the  law. 

"Look  you,  you  rascals,"  said  he,  "you  have  spoiled 
a  lady's  afternoon  with  your  foolish  warrant!"  He  then 
relinquished  the  unconscious  girl  to  her  brother's  keep 
ing,  tenderly  kissed  one  insensate  hand,  and  afterward 
strolled  off  to  jail  en  route  for  a  perfunctory  trial  and  a 
subsequent  traffic  with  the  executioner  that  he  did  not 
care  to  think  of. 

Tun  bridge  buzzed  like  a  fly-trap  with  the  ensuing 
rumors.  The  Captain  was  at  the  head  of  a  most  heinous 


(Sailatttrg 

Jacobitical  uprising.  The  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk  was 
come  hastily  from  London  on  the  business.  Highlanders 
were  swarming  over  the  Border,  ten  thousand  French 
troops  had  landed  at  Pevensey,  commanded  by  the 
Chevalier  St.  George  in  person,  and  twenty  thousand 
friars  and  pilgrims  from  Corufia  had  sailed  for  Mil- 
ford  Haven,  under  the  admiralty  of  Cardinal  York.  The 
King  was  locked  in  the  Tower;  the  King  had  been  as 
sassinated  that  morning  by  a  Spanish  monk  with  horse- 
pistols  and  a  cast  in  his  left  eye;  and,  finally,  the 
King  and  the  Countess  of  Yarmouth  had  escaped  three 
days  ago,  in  disguise,  and  were  now  on  their  way  to 
Hanover. 

So  Tunbridge  gossiped,  while  Dorothy  Allonby  wept  a 
little  and  presently  called  for  cold  water  and  a  powder- 
puff,  and  afterward  for  a  sedan  chair. 


Miss  Allonby  found  my  Lord  Duke  of  Ormskirk  deep 
in  an  infinity  of  papers.  But  at  her  entrance  he  rose  and 
with  a  sign  dismissed  his  secretary. 

It  appears  appropriate  here  to  afford  you  some  notion 
of  Ormskirk' s  exterior.  I  pilfer  from  Lowe's  memoir  of 
him,  where  Horace  Calverley,  who  first  saw  him  about 
this  time,  is  quoted : 

"  His  Grace  was  in  blue-and-silver,  which  became  him, 
though  he  is  somewhat  stomachy  for  such  conspicuous 
colors.  A  handsome  man,  I  would  have  said,  honest  but 
not  particularly  intelligent.  .  .  .  Walpole,  in  a  fit  of 
spleen,  once  called  him  'a  porcelain  sphinx,'  and  the 
phrase  sticks;  but,  indeed,  there  is  more  of  the  china- 
doll  about  him.  He  possesses  the  same  too-perfect  com- 

116 


Art0r0  All 

plexion,  his  blue  eyes  have  the  same  spick-and-span 
vacuity;  and  the  right  orb's  being  a  trifle  larger  than  its 
fellow  gives  his  countenance,  in  repose,  much  the  same 
expression  of  placid  astonishment.  .  .  .  Very  plump,  very 
sleepy-looking,  immaculate  as  a  cat,  you  would  never 
have  accorded  him  a  second  glance:  covert  whisperings 
that  the  stout  gentleman  yonder  is  the  great  Duke  of 
Ormskirk  have,  I  think,  staggered  human  credulity  more 
than  once  during  these  ten  years  past." 

They  said  of  him  that  he  manifested  a  certain  excite 
ment  on  the  day  after  Culloden,  when  he  had  seventy- 
two  prisoners  shot  en  masse,1  but  this  was  doubted,  and 
in  any  event,  such  battues  being  comparatively  rare,  he 
by  ordinary  appeared  to  regard  the  universe  with  a  com 
posed  and  catlike  indifference. 


II 

"Child,  child!"  Ormskirk  now  began,  and  made  a  tiny 
gesture  of  deprecation,  "I  perceive  you  are  about  to 
appeal  to  my  better  nature,  and  so  I  warn  you  in  advance 
that  the  idiotic  business  has  worked  rne  into  a  temper 
absolutely  ogreish." 

"The  Jacobite  conspiracy,  you  mean?"  said  Miss 
Allonby.  "  O,  I  suppose  so.  I  am  not  particularly  in 
terested  in  such  matters,  though;  I  came,  you  under 
stand,  for  a  warrant,  or  an  order,  or  whatever  you  call  it, 
for  them  to  let  Frank  out  of  that  horrid  filthy  gaol." 

1  But  for  all  that,  when,  near  Rossinish  (see  Lowe),  he  captured  Flora 
Macdonald  and  her  ostensibly  female  companion,  Ormskirk  flatly  de 
clined  to  recognize  Prince  Charles.  "They  may  well  call  you  the  Pre 
tender,  madam,"  he  observed  to  "Bettie  Burke" — "since  as  concerns 
my  party  you  are  the  most  desirable  Pretender  we  could  possibly  im 
agine."  And  thereupon  he  gave  the  Prince  a  pass  out  of  Scotland. 

117 


(gallantry 

The  Duke's  face  was  gravely  humorous  as  he  gazed  at 
her  for  a  moment  or  two  in  silence.  "You  know  quite 
well,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I  can  give  you  nothing  of  the 
sort." 

Miss  Allonby  said:  "Upon  my  word,  I  never  heard  of 
such  nonsense !  How  else  is  he  to  take  me  to  Lady  Mack- 
worth's  ball  to-night?" 

"It  is  deplorable,"  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  conceded, 
"that  Captain  Audaine  should  be  thus  snatched  from 
circles  which  he,  no  doubt,  adorns.  Still,  I  fear  you  must 
look  out  for  another  escort ;  and  frankly,  child,  if  you  will 
be  advised  by  me,  you  will  permit  us  to  follow  out  our 
present  intentions  and  take  off  his  head — no  great  de 
privation  when  you  consider  he  has  so  plainly  demon 
strated  its  contents  to  be  of  the  most  inferior  quality." 

She  had  drawn  close  to  him,  with  wide,  pitiful  eyes. 
"You  mean,  then,"  she  demanded,  "that  Frank's  very 
life  is  in  danger?" 

"This  is  unfair,"  the  Duke  complained.  "You  are 
about  to  go  into  hysterics  forthwith  and  thus  bully  me 
into  letting  the  man  escape.  You  are  a  minx.  You 
presume  upon  the  fact  that  in  the  autumn  I  am  to  wed 
your  kinswoman  and  bosom  companion,  and  that  my 
affection  for  her  is  widely  known  to  go  well  past  the 
frontier  of  common-sense;  and  also  upon  the  fact  that 
Marian  will  give  me  the  devil  if  I  don't  do  exactly  as  you 
ask.  I  consider  you  to  abuse  your  power  unconscionably. 
I  consider  you  to  be  a  second  Delilah.  However,  since 
you  insist  upon  it,  this  Captain  Audaine  must,  of  course, 
be  spared  the  fate  he  very  richly  merits." 

Miss  Allonby  had  seated  herself  beside  a  table  and  was 
pensively  looking  up  at  him.  "Naturally,"  she  said, 
"Marian  and  I,  between  us,  will  badger  you  into  saving 
Frank.  I  shall  not  worry,  therefore,  and  I  must  trust  to 

118 


#  All 

Providence,  I  suppose,  to  arrange  matters  so  that  the 
poor  boy  will  not  catch  his  death  of  cold  in  your  leaky 
gaol  yonder.  And  now  I  would  like  to  be  informed  pre 
cisely  of  what  he  has  been  most  unjustly  accused." 

"His  crime,"  the  Duke  retorted,  "is  the  not  unusual 
one  of  being  a  fool.  O,  I  am  candid !  All  Jacobites  are 
fools.  We  gave  the  Stuarts  a  fair  trial,  Heaven  knows, 
and  nobody  but  a  fool  would  want  them  back." 

"I  am  not  here  to  discuss  politics,"  a  dignified  Miss 
Allonby  stated,  "but  simply  to  find  out  what  Frank  has 
done." 

Ormskirk  lifted  one  eyebrow.  "It  is  not  altogether  a 
matter  of  politics.  Rather  it  is  a  matter  of  common- 
sense.  Under  the  Stuarts  England  was  a  prostitute  among 
the  nations,  lackey  in  turn  to  Spain  and  France  and 
Italy;  under  the  Guelph  the  Three-per-cents,  are  to-day 
very  nearly  at  par.  The  question  as  to  which  is  preferable 
thus  resolves  itself  into  a  choice  between  common-sense 
and  bedlamite  folly.  But,  unhappily,  you  cannot  argue 
with  a  Jacobite:  only  four  years  ago  Cumberland  and 
Hawley  and  I  rode  from  Aberdeen  to  the  Highlands  and 
left  the  intervening  country  bare  as  the  palm  of  your 
hand;  I  forget  how  many  Jacobites  we  killed,  but  evi 
dently  not  enough  to  convince  the  others.  Very  well :  we 
intend  to  have  no  more  such  nonsense,  and  we  will  settle 
this  particular  affair  by  the  simple  device  of  hanging  or 
beheading  every  man -Jack  concerned  in  it."  He  spoke 
without  vehemence — rather  regretfully  than  otherwise. 

Miss  Allonby  was  very  white.  "  But  what  has  Frank 
done?"  she  said,  presently. 

"He  has  been  conspiring,"  said  the  Duke,  "and  with 
conspicuous  clumsiness.  It  appears,  child,  that  it  was 
their  common  idiocy  which  o'  late  brought  together  some 
two  hundred  gentlemen  in  Lancashire.  Being  every  one 

119 


of  them  most  unmitigated  fools,  they  desired,  you  must 
know,  that  sot  at  Avignon  to  come  over  once  more  and 
'take  back  his  own,'  as  the  saying  is.  He  would  not  stir 
without  definite  assurances.  So  these  men  drew  up  a 
petition  pledging  their  all  to  the  Chevalier's  cause  and — 
God  help  us! — signed  it.  I  protest,"  the  Duke  sighed, 
"I  cannot  understand  these  people!  A  couple  of  pen- 
strokes,  you  observe,  and  there  is  your  life  at  the  mercy 
of  chance,  at  the  disposal  of  a  puff  of  wind  or  the  first 
blunderer  who  stumbles  on  the  paper." 

"Doubtless  that  is  entirely  true,"  said  Miss  Allonby, 
"but  what  about  Frank?" 

Ormskirk  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  began  to  laugh. 
"You  are  an  incomparable  actress,  you  rogue  you.  But 
let  us  be  candid,  for  all  that,  since  as  it  happens  Lord 
Humphrey  is  not  the  only  person  in  my  employ.  What 
occurred  last  night  I  partially  know,  and  in  part  guess. 
Degge  played  a  bold  game,  and  your  Captain  an  even 
bolder  one — only  the  stakes,  as  it  to-day  transpires,  were 
of  somewhat  less  importance  than  either  of  them  sur 
mised.  For  years  Mr.  Vanringham  has  been  a  Jacobite 
emissary ;  now  he  tires  of  it ;  and  so  he  devoted  the  entire 
morning  yesterday  to  making  an  accurate  copy  of  this 
absurd  petition." 

" I  do  not  understand,"  said  Miss  Allonby;  and  in  ap 
pearance,  at  least,  she  was  no  whit  disconcerted. 

"  He  carried  only  the  copy.  You  burned  only  the  copy. 
Mr.  Vanringham,  you  see,  knew  well  enough  what  that 
bungling  Degge  had  planned  to  do,  and  preferred  to  treat 
directly  with  Lord  Humphrey's  principal.  Mr.  Vanring 
ham  is  an  intelligent  fellow.  I  dare  make  this  assertion, 
because  I  am  fresh  from  an  interview  with  Mr.  Vanring 
ham;"  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  ended,  and  allowed  himself 
a  reminiscent  chuckle. 

I2O 


s  All 

She  had  risen.  "O,  ungenerous!  this  Vanringham  has 
been  bribed!" 

"I  pray  you,"  said  the  Duke,  "give  vent  to  no  such 
idle  scandal.  Vanringham's  life  would  not  be  worth  a 
farthing  if  he  had  done  such  a  thing,  and  he  knows  it. 
Nay,  I  have  planned  it  more  neatly.  To-night  Mr.  Van 
ringham  will  be  arrested — merely  on  suspicion,  mind  you 
— and  all  his  papers  will  be  brought  to  me;  and  it  is 
possible  that  among  them  we  may  find  the  petition. 
And  it  is  possible  that,  somehow,  when  he  is  tried  with 
the  others,  Mr.  Vanringham  alone  may  be  acquitted. 
And  it  is  possible  that  an  aunt — in  Wales,  say — may  die 
about  this  time  and  leave  him  a  legacy  of  some  five  thou 
sand  pounds.  O,  yes,  all  this  is  quite  possible,"  said  the 
Duke;  "but  should  we  therefore  shriek  Bribery?  For  my 
own  part,  I  esteem  Mr.  Vanringham  as  the  one  sensible 
man  in  the  two  hundred." 

"  He  has  turned  King's  evidence,"  she  said,  "  and  his  pa 
pers  will  be  brought  to  you —  Miss  Allonby  paused,  and 
now  in  her  countenance  you  saw  the  last  trace  of  color 
surge  and  then  abate.  '  'All  his  papers !"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"And  very  curious  they  will  prove,  no  doubt,"  said  his 
Grace.  "So  many  love-sick  misses  write  to  actors,  you 
know.  I  can  assure  you,  child,  I  look  forward  with  a 
deal  of  interest  to  my  inspection  of  Mr.  Vanringham's 
correspondence." 

"  Eh  ? — O,  yes!"  Miss  Allonby  assented — "  all  his  papers! 
Yes,  they  should  be  diverting.  I  must  be  going  home 
now,"  she  added,  with  a  certain  irrelevancy. 

Ill 

And  when  she  had  left  him  the  Duke  sat  for  a  long 
whil ;  in  meditation. 

121 


(gallantrg 

"That  is  an  admirable  girl.  I  would  I  could  oblige 
her  in  the  matter  and  let  this  Audaine  live.  But  such 
folly  is  out  of  the  question.  The  man  is  the  very  heart 
of  the  conspiracy. 

"No,  Captain  Audaine,  I  am  afraid  we  must  have  that 
handsome  head  of  yours.  And  yours,  too,  Mr.  Vanring- 
ham,  when  we  are  done  with  you.  This  affair  must  be 
the  last;  hitherto  we  have  tried  leniency,  and  it  has 
failed ;  now  we  will  try  extermination.  Not  one  of  these 
men  must  escape. 

"I  shall  have  trouble  with  Marian,  since  the  two  girls 
are  inseparable.  Yes,  this  Audaine  will  cause  me  a 
deal  of  trouble  with  Marian.  I  heartily  wish  the  fellow 
had  never  been  born." 

Presently  Ormskirk  took  a  miniature  from  his  pocket 
and  sat  thus  in  the  dusk  regarding  it.  It  was  the  por 
trait  of  a  young  girl  with  hazel  eyes  and  abundant  hair 
the  color  of  a  dead  oak-leaf.  And  now  his  sleepy  face 
was  curiously  moved. 

"  I  shall  have  to  lie  to  you.  And  you  will  believe  me, 
for  you  are  not  disastrously  clever.  But  I  wish  it  were 
not  necessary,  my  dear.  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  make 
you  understand  that  my  concern  is  to  save  England 
rather  than  a  twopenny  captain.  As  it  is,  I  will  lie  to 
you,  and  you  will  believe.  And  Dorothy  will  get  over 
it  in  time,  as  one  gets  over  everything  in  time.  But  I 
wish  it  were  not  necessary,  sweetheart. 

"I  wish.  ...  I  wish  that  I  were  not  so  happy  when  I 
think  of  you.  I  become  so  happy  that  I  grow  afraid. 
It  is  not  right  that  any  one  should  be  so  happy. 

"  Bah!     I  am  probably  falling  into  my  dotage." 

Ormskirk  struck  upon  the  gong.  "And  now,  Mr. 
Langton,  let  us  get  back  to  business." 


AU 

IV 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Miss  Allonby  demanded  of  her 
maid  if  Gerald  Allonby  were  within  and  received  a  neg 
ative  response.  "Nothing  could  be  better,"  said  Miss 
Allonby.  "You  know  that  new  suit  of  Master  Gerald's, 
Barbara — the  pink-and-silver ?  Very  well;  then  you  will 
do  thus,  and  thus,  and  thus—  And  she  poured  forth  a 
series  of  directions  that  astonished  her  maid  not  a  little. 

"Law  you  now!"  said  Barbara,  "whatever — ?" 

"If  you  ask  me  any  questions,"  said  Dorothy,  "I  will 
discharge  you  on  the  spot.  And  if  you  betray  me,  I 
shall  probably  kill  you." 

Barbara  said,  "O  Gemini!"  and  did  as  her  mistress 
ordered. 

Miss  Allonby  made  a  handsome  boy,  and  such  was  her 
one  comfort.  Her  mirror  showed  an  epicene  denizen  of 
romance  —  Rosalind  or  Bellario,  frail  and  lovely  and 
brave,  the  travesty  and  super-refinement  of  boyhood; 
but  her  heart  showed  stark  terror.  Here  was  imminent 
no  jaunt  into  Arden,  but  into  the  gross  jaws  of  even 
bodily  destruction.  Here  was  a  sure  dishonor,  a  guar- 
anteeable  death,  and  she  anticipated  either  with  appro 
priate  emotion.  She  could  fence  well  enough,  thanks  to 
many  bouts  with  Gerald ;  but  when  the  foils  were  unbut 
toned,  what  then?  She  appreciated  the  difference,  and 
it  terrified  her. 

"  In  consequence,"  said  Dorothy, "  I  had  better  hurry  be 
fore  I  am  still  more  afraid." 


So  there  came  that  evening,  after  dusk,  to  Mr.  Francis 
Vanringham's  apartments,  at  the  Three  Gudgeons,  a  young 

123 


(Ballantrg 

spark  in  pink-and-silver.  He  appeared  startled  at  the 
sight  of  so  much  company,  recovered  his  composure  with 
a  gulp,  and  subsequently  presented  himself  to  the  assem 
bled  gentlemen  as  Mr.  Osric  Allonby,  unexpectedly  sum 
moned  from  Cambridge,  and  in  search  of  his  brother,  the 
Ensign  Gerald.  At  his  step-mother's  villa  they  had 
imagined  Gerald  might  be  spending  the  evening  with  Mr. 
Vanringham.  He  apologized  for  the  intrusion ;  was  their 
humble  servant;  and  with  a  profusion  of  congees  made 
as  though  to  withdraw. 

Mr.  Vanringham  lounged  forward.  The  comedian  had 
a  vogue  among  the  younger  men,  since  at  all  games  of 
chance  they  had  found  him  untiring  and  tolerably  honest ; 
and  his  apartments  were,  in  effect,  a  gambling  parlor. 

He  now  took  the  boy's  hand  very  genially.  "You 
have  somewhat  the  look  of  your  sister,"  he  observed,  after 
a  prolonged  appraisal;  "though,  in  nature,  'tis  not  ex 
pected  of  us  trousered  folk  to  be  so  beautiful.  And  by 
your  leave,  you'll  not  quit  us  thus  unceremoniously, 
Master  Osric.  I  am  by  way  of  being  a  friend  of  your 
brother's,  and  'tis  more  than  possible  that  he  may  during 
the  evening  honor  us  with  his  presence.  Will  you  not 
linger  awhile  on  the  off-chance?"  And  Osric  Allonby 
assented. 

He  was  in  due  form  made  known  to  the  three  gentle 
men — Colonel  Denstroude,1  Mr.  Babington-Herle,  and  Sir 
Gresley  Carne  —  who  sat  over  a  bowl  of  punch.  Sir 
Gresley  was  then  permitted  to  conclude  the  narrative 
which  Mr.  Allonby 's  entrance  had  interrupted:  the  even 
ing  previous,  being  a  little  tipsy,  he  had  strolled  about 

1  He  and  Vanringham  were  reconciled  after  Molly  Yates's  elopement 
with  Tom  Stoach,  the  Colonel's  footman.  Garendon  has  a  curious 
anecdote  concerning  this  lady,  apropos  of  his  notorious  duel  with 
Denstroude,  in  '61. 

124 


AH 

Tunb ridge  in  search  of  recreation  and,  with  perhaps 
excessive  playfulness,  had  slapped  a  passer-by,  broken 
the  fellow's  nose,  and  gouged  both  thumbs  into  the  ras 
cal's  eyes.  He  conceded  the  introduction  of  these  London 
pastimes  into  the  rural  quiet  of  Tunbridge  to  have  been 
an  error  in  taste,  especially  as  the  man  proved  upon 
inquiry  to  be  a  respectable  haberdasher  and  the  sole 
dependence  of  four  children;  and  since  he  had  unfortu 
nately  blinded  the  little  tradesman,  Sir  Gresley  wished  to 
ask  of  the  assembled  company  what  in  their  opinion  was 
a  reasonable  reparation.  "  For  through  my  pocket-book 
is  that  of  a  butcher  at  Easter,"  Sir  Gresley  concluded,  "  I 
sincerely  regret  the  entire  affair  and  am  desirous  to  follow 
a  course  appro vable  by  all  men  of  honor." 

"Heyho!"  said  Mr.  Vanringham,  "I'm  afraid  the  rape 
of  both  eyes  was  a  trifle  extreme;  for  by  ordinary  a 
haberdasher  is  neither  a  potato  nor  an  Argus,  and,  re 
membering  that,  even  the  high  frivolity  of  brandy-and- 
water  should  have  respected  his  limitations  and  have  been 
content  with  the  theft  of  one." 

The  hands  of  Mr.  Allonby  had  screened  his  face  during 
the  recital.  "O,  the  poor  man!"  he  sobbed.  "I  cannot 
bear—  And  then,  with  swift  alteration,  he  tossed  back 
his  head  (tears  on  his  cheeks)  and  laughed.  "Are  we 
gentlemen  to  be  denied  all  amusement?  Sir  Gresley 
acted  quite  within  his  privilege,  and  in  terming  him  severe 
you  have  lied,  Mr.  Vanringham.  I  repeat,  sir,  you  have 
lied!" 

Vanringham  was  on  his  feet  within  the  instant,  but 
Colonel  Denstroude,  who  sat  beside  him,  laid  a  heavy  hand 
upon  his  arm.  "  'Oons,  man,"  says  the  Colonel,  "infan 
ticide  is  a  crime." 

The  actor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Doubtless  you  are 
in  the  right,  Mr.  Allonby,"  he  said,  "though,  as  you  were 

I25 


(Gallantry 

perhaps  going  on  to  observe,  you  express  yourself  some 
what  obscurely.  Your  meaning,  I  take  it,  is  that  I 
mayn't  criticise  the  doings  of  my  guests?  I  stand  cor 
rected,  and  concede  Sir  Gresley  acted  with  commendable 
moderation,  and  that  Cambridge  is,  beyond  question,  the 
paramount  expositor  of  both  morals  and  manners/' 

The  lad  stared  about  him  with  a  bewildered  face.  "La, 
will  he  not  fight  me  now?"  he  demanded  of  Colonel 
Denstroude — "now,  after  I  have  called  him  a  liar?" 

"My  dear,"  the  Colonel  retorted,  "he  may  possibly 
deprive  you  of  your  nursing-bottle,  or  he  may  even  birch 
you,  but  he  will  most  assuredly  not  fight  you,  so  long  as 
I  have  any  say  in  the  affair.  I'  cod,  we  are  all  friends 
here,  I  hope.  D'ye  think  Mr.  Vanringham  has  so  often 
enacted  Richard  III.  that  to  strangle  infants  is  habitual 
with  him?  Fight  you,  indeed!  'Sdeath  and  devils!" 
roared  the  Colonel,  "I  will  cut  the  throat  of  any  man 
who  dares  to  speak  of  fighting  in  this  amicable  company! 
Gimme  some  more  punch,"  said  the  Colonel. 

And  thereupon  in  silence  Mr.  Allonby  resumed  his 
seat. 

Now,  to  relieve  the  somewhat  awkward  tension,  Mr. 
Vanringham  cried:  "So  being  neighborly  again,  let  us 
think  no  more  of  the  recent  difference  in  opinion.  Pay 
your  damned  haberdasher  what  you  like,  Gresley;  or, 
rather,  let  Osric  here  fix  the  remuneration.  I  confess  to 
all  and  sundry,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "that  I  daren't 
say  another  word  in  the  matter.  Frankly,  I'm  afraid  of 
this  youngster.  He  breathes  fire  like  ^tna." 

"He  is  a  lad  of  spirit,"  said  Mr.  Babington-Herle,  with 
an  extreme  and  not  very  convincing  sobriety.  "He's  a 
lad  eshtrornary  spirit.  Lesh  have  game  hazard." 

"Agreed,  good  sir,"  said  Vanringham,  "and  I  warn 
you,  you  will  find  me  a  daring  antagonist.  I  had  to-day 

126 


Art0r0  All 

an  extraordinary — the  usual  prejudice,  my  dear  Herle, 
is,  I  believe,  somewhat  inclined  to  that  pronunciation  of 
the  word — the  most  extraordinary  windfall.  I  am  rich, 
and  I  protest  King  Croesus  himself  sha'n't  intimidate  me 
to-night.  Come!"  he  gayly  cried,  and  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  plump  purse  and  emptied  its  contents  upon 
the  table;  "come,  lay  your  wager!" 

"Hell  and  furies,"  the  Colonel  groaned,  " there's  that 
tomfool  boy  again!  Gimme  some  more  punch." 

For  Osric  Allonby  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  had  swept 
the  littered  gold  and  notes  toward  him.  He  stood  thus, 
his  pink-tipped  fingers  caressing  the  money,  while  his 
eyes  fixed  those  of  Mr.  Vanringham.  "And  the  chief 
priests,"  observed  Osric  Allonby,  "took  the  silver  pieces 
and  said,  'It  is  not  lawful  for  to  put  them  into  the 
treasury,  because  it  is  the  price  of  blood/  Are  they,  then, 
fit  to  be  touched  by  gentlemen,  Mr. — er — I  forget  your 
given  name?" 

Vanringham,  too,  had  risen,  his  face  paper.  "  My  spon 
sors  in  baptism  were  pleased  to  christen  me  Francis." 

"  I  entreat  your  pardon,"  the  boy  drawled,  "but  I  have 
the  oddest  fancies.  I  had  thought  it  had  been  Judas." 
And  so  they  stood,  warily  regarding  each  the  other,  as 
strange  dogs  are  wont  to  do  at  meeting. 

"Boysh  drunk,"  Mr.  Babington- Herle  explained  at 
large,  "  and  now  preshents  to  eye  of  disinterested  speckle- 
tator  most  deplorable  results  inshidental  to  combination 
of  immaturity  and  brandy.  Don't  I  rismember  in  Susto- 
nius —  And  he  launched  upon  a  hiccough-punctuated 
anecdote  of  the  Roman  emperor,  Vespasian,  which  to  re 
cord  here  is  not  convenient.  "And  moral  of  it  is,"  Mr. 
Babington-Herle  perorated,  "that  moneysh  always  a  good 
thing  to  have.  Non  diet!  Clashical  scholar,  by  Jove! 
Now,  lesh  have  game  hazard." 
9  127 


Meanwhile  those  two  had  stood  like  statues  eternally 
postured.  And  presently: 

"  I  ask  your  forgiveness,  gentlemen,"  said  Francis  Van- 
ringham,  "but  I'm  suddenly  ill.  If  you'll  permit  me  to 
retire—" 

"  Not  'tall,"  said  Mr.  Babington-Herle;  "late  in  evening, 
anyhow.  We  will  go — Colonel  and  old  Carne  and  me  will 
go  kill  watchman.  Persevorate  him,  by  Jove — like  sieve. ' ' 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Vanringham,  withdrawing  up 
the  stairway  toward  his  bedroom.  "  I  thank  you.  Mr. 
Allonby,"  he  called,  in  a  firmer  tone,  "you  and  I  have 
had  some  words  together  and  you  were  the  aggressor. 
Oho,  I  think  we  may  pass  it  over.  I  think — " 

Below,  the  four  gentlemen  were  unhooking  their  swords 
from  the  wall,  where  they  had  hung  during  the  preceding 
conversation.  Mr.  Allonby  now  smiled  with  cherubic  sweet 
ness.  "I,  too,"  said  he, "  think  that  all  our  differences  might 
be  amicably  arranged  by  ten  minutes'  private  discourse." 
He  ran  nimbly  up  the  stairs.  "  You  had  left  your  sword," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Vanringham,  "but  I  fetched  it,  you  see." 

Vanringham  stared  down  at  this  pink  scrap  of  human 
ity,  his  lips  working  oddly.  "  I  am  no  Siegfried,"  said  he, 
"  and  ordinarily  my  bedfellow  is  not  cold  and — deplorable 
defect  in  such  capacity! — somewhat  unsympathetic  steel." 

"But  you  forget,"  the  boy  urged,  "that  the  room  is 
public.  And  see,  the  hilt  is  set  with  jewels.  Ah,  Mr. 
Vanringham,  let  us  beware  how  we  lead  others  into 
temptation — "  The  door  closed  behind  them. 

VI 

Said  Mr.  Babington-Herle,  judicially:  "That's  eshtror- 
nary  boy — most  eshtrornary  boy,  and  precisely  unlike 
brother." 

128 


Art0r0  All 

"But  you  must  remember,"  the  Colonel  pointed  out, 
"that  since  his  marriage  Gerald  is  a  reformed  man;  he 
has  quite  given  up  hazard,  they  say,  and  has  taken  to 
beer  and  cattle-raising." 

"Mrs.  Lascelles  will  be  inconsolable,"  Sir  Gresley  con 
sidered. — " Hey,  what's  that?  Did  you  not  hear  a  noise 
up-stairs?" 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that  Mallison  finds 
her  so. — Yes,  i'cod!  I  suppose  that  tipsy  boy  has  turned 
over  a  table." 

"  But  you  astound  me,"  Sir  Gresley  interrupted.  "The 
constant  Mallison,  of  all  people!" 

"  Nevertheless,  my  dear,  they  assure  me  that  he  has 
given  her  the  villa  recently  vacated  by  Mrs.  Roydon, 
and  a  coach-and-four,  and  Thursday  evenings  out. — O, 
the  devil!"  cried  Colonel  Denstroude,  "they  are  fighting 
above!" 

' '  Good  for  Frank ! ' '  observed  Mr.  Babington-Herle.  ' '  Hip- 
hip!  Stick  young  rascal!  Persevorate  him,  by  Jove!" 

But  the  other  men  had  run  hastily  up  the  stairway  and 
were  battering  at  the  door  of  Vanringham's  chamber. 
"Locked!"  said  the  Colonel.  "O,  the  unutterable  cur! 
Open,  open,  I  tell  you,  Vanringham!  By  God,  I'll  have 
your  blood  for  this  if  you  have  hurt  the  boy!" 

"Break  in  the  door!"  said  a  voice  from  below.  The 
Colonel  paused  in  his  objurgations  and  found  that  the 
Duke  of  Ormskirk,  followed  by  four  attendants,  had 
entered  the  hallway  of  the  Three  Gudgeons.  "Benyon," 
said  the  Duke,  more  sharply,  and  wheeled  upon  his  men, 
"you  have  had  my  orders,  I  believe.  Break  in  yonder 
door!" 

This  was  done.  They  found  Mr.  Francis  Vanringham 
upon  the  floor,  a  tousled  heap  of  flesh  and  finery,  insensi 
ble,  with  his  mouth  gaping,  in  a  great  puddle  of  blood. 

129 


(gallantry 

To  the  rear  was  a  boy  in  pink-and -silver,  beside  the 
writing-desk  he  had  just  got  into  with  the  co-operation 
of  a  poker.  Hugged  to  his  breast  he  held  a  brown  de 
spatch-box. 

Ormskirk  strode  toward  the  boy  and  with  a  convulsive 
inhalation  paused.  The  Duke  stood  tense  for  a  moment. 
Then  silently  he  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  actor  and  in 
spected  Vanringham's  injury.  "You  have  killed  him," 
the  Duke  said  at  last. 

"I— I  think  so,"  said  the  boy.  "But  'twas  in  fair 
fight." 

The  Duke  rose,  a  man  of  bronze.  "  Benyon, ' '  he  rapped 
out,  "do  you  and  Minchin  take  this  body  to  the  room 
below.  Let  a  surgeon  be  sent  for.  Bring  word  if  he  find 
any  sign  of  life.  Gentlemen,  I  must  ask  you  to  avoid  the 
chamber.  This  is  a  state  matter.  I  am  responsible  for 
yonder  person." 

"Then  your  Grace's  'sponsible  bloody-minded  young 
villain!"  said  Mr.  Babington  -  Herle.  "He's  murderer 
Frank  Vanringham,  lemme  tell  you.  Hang  him  high's 
Haman,  your  Grace,  and  at  once." 

"Colonel  Denstroude,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  will  ask  you 
to  assist  your  friend  in  retiring.  The  stairs  are  steep, 
and  his  conviviality,  I  fear,  has  by  a  pint  or  so  exceeded 
his  capacity.  And  in  fine — I  wish  you  a  good-evening, 
gentlemen." 

VII 

Ormskirk  closed  the  door;  then  he  turned.  "I  lack 
words,"  the  Duke  said,  in  a  stifled  voice.  "O,  believe 
me,  speech  fails  before  this  spectacle.  To  find  you,  here, 
at  this  hour!  To  find  you — my  betrothed  wife's  kins 
woman  and  lifelong  associate — here,  in  this  garb!  A 

130 


Artnra   All 

slain  man  at  your  feet,  his  blood  yet  reeking  upon  that 
stolen  sword!     His  papers — pardon  me!" 

Ormskirk  sprang  forward  and  caught  the  despatch-box 
from  her  grasp  as  she  strove  to  empty  its  contents  into 
the  fire.  "  Pardon  me,"  he  repeated ;  "  you  have  unsexed 
yourself ;  do  not  add  high  treason  to  the  list  of  your  mis 
demeanors.  Mr.  Vanringham's  papers,  as  I  have  pre 
viously  had  the  honor  to  inform  you,  are  the  state's 
property." 

She  stood  with  void  and  inefficient  hands  that  groped 
vaguely.  "I  could  trust  no  one,"  she  said.  "I  have 
fenced  so  often  with  Gerald.  I  was  not  afraid — at  least, 
I  was  not  very  much  afraid.  And  'twas  so  difficult  to 
draw  him  into  a  quarrel — he  wanted  to  live,  you  see, 
because  at  last  he  had  the  money  his  dirty  little  soul  had 
craved.  Ah,  I  had  sacrificed  so  many  things  to  get  these 
papers,  my  Lord  Duke, — and  now  you  rob  me  of  them. 
You!" 

The  Duke  bent  pitiless  brows  upon  her.  "I  rob  you 
of  them,"  he  said — "ay,  I  am  discourteous  and  I  rob, 
but  not  for  myself  alone.  For  your  confusion  tells  me 
that  I  hold  within  my  hands  the  salvation  of  England. 
Child,  child!"  he  cried,  in  sudden  tenderness,  "I  trusted 
you  to-day,  and  could  you  not  trust  me?  I  promised 
you  the  life  of  the  man  you  love.  I  promised  you — 
He  broke  off,  in  a  rivalry  of  rage  and  horror.  "And 
you  betrayed  me!  You  came  hither,  trousered  and 
shameless,  to  save  these  enemies  of  England.  O,  vile! 
And  now — well,  i'  faith!"  the  Duke  said,  more  calmly, 
"this  Captain  Audaine  shall  within  the  week  be  the  as 
sociate  of  seraphim  if  his  luck  hold  out,  since  I  esteem  it 
better — ay,  immeasurably  better — that  every  man  whose 
name  is  written  here  should  perish  miserably  rather  than 
England  perish." 


(gallantrg 

She  had  heard  him  with  defiant  eyes ;  her  head  was 
flung  back  and  she  laughed  discordantly.  "  You  thought 
I  had  come  to  destroy  the  Jacobite  petition!  Heavens, 
what  had  I  to  do  with  all  such  nonsense  ?  You  had  prom 
ised  me  Frank's  pardon,  and  the  other  men  I  had  never 
even  seen.  Harkee,  my  Lord  Duke,"  the  girl  sneered, 
"  did  you  in  truth  believe  that  the  poor  fool  who  lies  dead 
below  would  have  intrusted  the  paper  which  meant  life 
and  wealth  to  the  keeping  of  a  flimsy  despatch -box?" 

"Indeed,  no,"  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  replied,  and 
appeared  a  thought  abashed;  "I  was  quite  certain  it 
would  be  concealed  somewhere  about  his  person,  and  I 
have  already  given  Benyon  orders  to  search  for  it.  Still, 
I  confess  that  for  the  moment  your  agitation  misled  me 
into  believing  these  were  the  important  papers;  and  I 
admit,  my  dear  creature,  that  unless  you  came  hither 
prompted  by  a  mad  design  somehow  to  destroy  the  in 
criminating  documents  and  thereby  to  insure  your  lover's 
life — why,  otherwise,  I  repeat,  I  am  quite  unable  to  divine 
your  motive." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while.  Presently,  "You  told  me 
this  afternoon,"  she  began,  in  a  dull  voice,  "that  you 
anticipated  much  amusement  from  your  perusal  of  Mr. 
Vanringham's  correspondence.  All  his  papers  were  to 
be  seized,  you  said;  and  all  of  them  were  to  be  brought 
to  you,  you  said.  And  so  many  love-sick  misses  write  to 
actors,  you  said." 

"As  I  recall  the  conversation,"  his  Grace  conceded, 
"that  which  you  have  stated  is  quite  true."  He  spoke 
with  admirable  languor,  but  his  countenance  was  vaguely 
troubled. 

And  now  the  girl  came  to  him  and  laid  her  finger-tips 
ever  so  lightly  upon  his.  "Trust  me,"  she  pleaded. 
"Give  me  again  the  trust  I  have  not  merited.  Ay,  in 

132 


AU 

spite  of  reason,  my  Lord  Duke,  restore  to  me  these  pa 
pers  unread,  that  I  may  destroy  them.  For  otherwise, 
I  swear  to  you  that  without  gain  to  yourself — without 
gain,  O  God! — you  wreck  alike  the  happiness  of  an  in 
nocent  woman  and  of  an  honest  gentleman.  And  other 
wise —  O,  infatuate!"  she  wailed,  and  wrung  impotent 
hands. 

But  Ormskirk  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot  leap  in  the 
dark.'1 

She  found  no  comfort  in  his  face,  and  presently  lowered 
her  eyes  therefrom.  He  remained  motionless.  The  girl 
went,  like  a  caged  thing,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  apart 
ment,  and  then,  her  form  straightening  on  a  sudden, 
turned  and  listlessly  came  back  toward  him. 

"I  think  God  has  some  grudge  against  you,"  Dorothy 
said,  without  any  emotion,  "and  hardens  your  heart,  as 
of  old  He  hardened  Pharaoh's  heart,  to  your  own  de 
struction.  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  save  you.  My 
woman's  modesty  I  have  put  aside,  and  death  and  worse 
than  death  I  have  dared  to  encounter  to-night — ah,  my 
Lord,  I  have  walked  through  hell  this  night  for  your  sake 
and  another's.  And  in  the  end  'tis  yourself  who  rob  me 
of  what  I  had  so  nearly  gained.  Beyond  doubt  God  has 
some  grudge  against  you.  Take  your  fate,  then." 

"Integer  vita—"  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk;  and  with 
more  acerbity:  "Go  on!"  For  momentarily  she  had 
paused. 

"The  man  who  lies  dead  below  was  loved  by  many 
women.  God  pity  them!  But  women  are  not  sensible 
like  men,  you  know.  And  always  the  footlights  were  as 
a  halo  about  him ;  and  when  you  saw  him  as  Castalio  or 
Romeo,  all  beauty  and  love  and  vigor  and  nobility,  how 
was  a  woman  to  understand  his  splendor  was  a  sham, 
taken  off  with  his  wig,  removed  with  his  pinchbeck 


ttaUtttttrg 

jewelry  and  as  false?  No,  they  thought  it  native,  poor 
wretches.  Yet  one  of  them  at  least,  my  Lord — a  young 
girl — found  out  her  error  before  it  was  too  late.  The 
man  was  a  villain  through  and  through.  God  grant  he 
sups  in  hell  to-night!" 

"  Go  on,"  said  Ormskirk.  But  by  this  he  knew  all  that 
she  had  to  tell. 

"Afterward  he  demanded  money  of  her.  He  had 
letters,  you  understand — mad,  foolish  letters — and  these 
he  offered  to  sell  back  to  her  at  his  own  price.  And  their 
publicity  meant  ruin.  And,  my  Lord,  we  had  so  nearly 
saved  the  money — pinching  day  by  day,  a  little  by  a 
little,  for  his  price  was  very  high,  and  it  was  necessary 
the  sum  be  got  in  secrecy — and  that  in  the  end  they 
should  be  read  by  you—  Her  voice  broke. 

"Go  on,"  said  Ormskirk,  and  now  the  words  came 
hollowly  through  lips  which  seemed  to  be  shaken  by, 
rather  than  to  form,  the  sound. 

But  her  composure  was  shattered.  "I  would  have 
given  my  life  to  save  her,"  the  girl  babbled.  "Ah,  you 
know  that  I  have  tried  to  save  her.  I  was  not  very 
much  afraid.  And  it  seemed  the  only  way.  So  I  came 
hither,  my  Lord,  as  you  see  me,  to  get  back  the  letters 
before  you,  too,  had  come." 

"There  is  but  one  woman  in  the  world,"  the  Duke  said, 
quietly,  "for  whom  you  would  have  done  this  thing. 
You  and  Marian  were  reared  together.  Always  you 
have  been  inseparable,  always  you  have  been  to  one 
another  more  than  sisters.  Is  this  not  so?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"And  therefore,"  he  continued,  "I  am  assured  that 
you  have  lied  to  me.  That  Marian  Heleigh  should  have 
been  guilty  of  a  vulgar  liaison  with  an  actor  is  to  me, 
who  know  her,  unthinkable.  No,  madam!  It  was  fear, 


0  All 

not  love,  which  drove  you  hither  to-night,  and  now  a 
baser  terror  urges  you  to  screen  yourself  by  vilifying  her. 
The  woman  of  whom  you  speak  is  yourself.  The  letters 
were  written  by  you." 

She  raised  one  arm  as  though  a  physical  blow  impended. 
"No,  no!"  she  hoarsely  cried. 

" Madam,"  the  Duke  said,  "let  us  have  done  with  these 
dexterities.  I  have  the  vanity  to  believe  I  am  not  un 
reasonably  obtuse  —  nor,  I  submit,  unreasonably  self- 
righteous.  Love  is  a  monstrous  force,  as  irrational,  I 
sometimes  think,  as  that  of  the  thunderbolt;  it  appears 
neither  to  select  nor  to  eschew,  but  merely  to  strike ;  and 
it  is  not  mine  either  to  asperse  or  to  commend  its  victims. 
You  have  loved  unworthily.  From  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  I  pity  you,  and  I  would  that  you  had  trusted  me — 
had  trusted  me  enough—  His  voice  broke.  "Ah,  my 
dear,"  said  Ormskirk,  "you  should  have  confided  all  to 
me  this  afternoon.  It  hurts  me  that  you  did  not,  for  I 
am  no  Pharisee  and — God  knows ! — my  own  past  is  not 
immaculate,  I  would  have  understood,  I  think.  Yet 
as  it  is,  take  back  your  letters,  child — nay,  in  Heaven's 
name,  take  them  in  pledge  of  an  old  man's  love  for 
Dorothy  Allonby." 

And  the  girl  obeyed,  turning  them  listlessly  in  her 
hands,  what  time  her  eyes  were  riveted  to  Ormskirk's 
face.  And  in  Aprilian  fashion  she  began  to  smile  through 
her  tears.  ''You  are  superb,  my  Lord  Duke.  You  realize 
very  well  that  Marian  wrote  these  letters,  and  that  if 
you  read  them — and  I  knew  it — your  pride  would  force 
you  to  break  off  the  match,  since  your  notions  as  to  what 
is  befitting  in  a  Duchess  of  Ormskirk  are  precise.  But 
you  want  Marian,  and  more — even  more  than  I  had  feared. 
Therefore,  you  give  me  all  these  letters,  because  you 
realize  that  I  will  destroy  them,  and  thus  an  inconvenient 


knowledge  will  be  spared  you.  O,  beyond  doubt,  you 
are  superb." 

"I  give  them  to  you,"  Ormskirk  answered,  " because  I 
have  seen  through  your  cowardly  and  clumsy  lie,  and 
have  only  pity  for  a  thing  so  mean  as  you.  I  give  them 
to  you  because  to  read  one  syllable  of  their  contents  would 
be  to  admit  I  had  some  faith  in  your  preposterous  fabri 
cation." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "Words,  words,  my  Lord 
Duke!  I  understand  you  to  the  marrow.  And,  in  part, 
I  think  that  I  admire  you." 

He  was  angry  now.  "  Eh!  for  the  love  of  God,"  cried 
the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  "let  us  burn  the  accursed  things 
and  have  no  more  verbiage!"  He  seized  the  papers  and 
flung  them  into  the  fire. 

Then  these  two  watched  them  consume  to  ashes,  and 
stood  awhile  in  silence,  the  gaze  of  neither  lifting  higher 
than  the  andirons;  and  presently  there  was  a  tapping  at 
the  door. 

"That  will  be  Benyon,"  the  Duke  said,  with  careful 
modulations.  "  Enter,  man!  What  news  is  there  of  this 
Vanringham?" 

"  He  will  recover,  your  Grace,  though  he  has  lost  much 
blood.  Mr.  Vanringham  has  regained  consciousness  and 
found  occasion  to  whisper  me  your  Grace  would  find  the 
needful  papers  in  his  escritoire,  in  the  brown  despatch- 
box." 

"That  is  well,"  the  Duke  retorted.  "You  may  go, 
Benyon,"  And  when  the  door  had  closed,  he  began 
incuriously:  "Then  you  are  not  a  murderess  at  least, 
Miss  Allonby.  At  least—  He  gave  a  smothered  cry, 
gazing  at  the  despatch-box  in  his  hand,  but  emptied. 
"The  brown  box!"  It  fell  to  the  floor.  Ormskirk  drew 
near  to  her,  staring,  moving  stiffly  like  a  hinged  toy.  "  I 

136 


a  All 

must  have  the  truth,"  he  said,  without  a  trace  of  any 
human  passion.  This  was  the  Ormskirk  men  had  known 
in  Scotland;  and  now  for  the  first  time  she  was  horribly 
afraid  of  him. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "they  were  the  Jacobite  papers. 
You  burned  them." 

"I!"  said  the  Duke. 

Presently  he  said:  " Do  you  realize  what  this  farce  has 
cost  ?  Thanks  to  you,  I  have  not  one  iota  of  proof  against 
these  men.  I  cannot  touch  these  rebels.  O,  madam,  I 
pray  Heaven  that  you  have  not  by  this  night's  trickery 
destroyed  England!" 

"  I  did  it  to  save  the  man  I  love,"  she  proudly  said. 

"I  had  promised  you  his  life." 

" But  would  you  have  kept  that  promise?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  simply. 

"Then  are  we  quits,  my  Lord.  You  lied  to  me,  and  I 
to  you.  O,  I  realize  that  were  I  a  man  you  would  kill 
me  within  the  moment.  But  you  respect  my  woman 
hood.  Ah,  goodness!"  the  girl  cried,  shrilly,  "  what  respect 
have  you  for  womanhood,  who  burned  those  papers  be 
cause  you  believed  my  dearest  Marian  had  stooped  to 
a  painted  mountebank!" 

"I  burned  them — yes,  in  the  belief  that  I  was  saving 
you." 

She  laughed  in  his  face.  "You  never  believed  me — 
not  for  an  instant." 

But  by  this  Ormskirk  had  regained  his  composure. 
"The  hour  is  somewhat  late  and  the  discussion — if  you 
will  pardon  the  suggestion — not  likely  to  be  profitable. 
The  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  I  am  now  power 
less  to  harm  anybody — I  submit  the  simile  of  the  fangless 
snake — and  that  Captain  Audaine  will  have  his  release  in 
the  morning.  Accordingly  you  will  now  permit  me  to 


(gallantry 

wish  you  a  pleasant  night's  rest.  Benyon!"  he  called, 
"you  will  escort  Mr.  Osric  Allonby  homeward.  I  remain 
to  clear  up  this  affair." 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her,  and,  bowing,  stood  aside 
that  she  might  pass. 

VIII 

But  afterward  the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk  continued 
for  a  long  while  motionless  and  faintly  smiling  as  he  gazed 
into  the  fire.  Tricked  and  ignominiously  defeated!  Ay, 
but  that  was  a  trifle  now,  scarcely  worthy  of  consideration. 
The  girl  had  hoodwinked  him,  had  lied  more  skilfully  than 
he,  yet  in  the  fact  that  she  had  lied  he  found  a  prodigal 
atonement.  Whigs  and  Jacobites  might  have  their  uses 
in  the  cosmic  scheme,  he  reflected,  as  house-flies  have, 
but  what  really  mattered  was  that  at  Halvergate  yonder 
Marian  awaited  his  coming.  And  in  place  of  statecraft 
he  fell  to  dreaming  of  two  hazel  eyes  and  of  abundant  hair 
the  color  of  a  dead  oak-leaf. 


April's 

As  Played  at  Hatoergate  House,  April  9,  1750 

"  You  cannot  love,  nor  pleasure  take,  nor  give, 
But  life  begin  when  'tis  too  late  to  live. 
On  a  tired  courser  you  pursue  delight, 
Let  slip  your  morning,  and  set  out  at  night. 
If  you  have  lived,  take  thankfully  the  past; 
Make,  as  you  can,  the  sweet  remembrance  last. 
If  you  have  not  enjoyed  what  youth  could  give, 
But  life  sunk  through  you,  like  a  leaky  sieve." 


DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

EARL  OF  BRUDENEL,  father  to  Lady  Marian  Heleigh,  who 
has  retired  sometime  into  the  country. 

LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE,  a  gamester,  and  Ormskirk's  hire 
ling. 

MR.  LANGTON,  secretary  to  Ormskirk. 

LADY  MARIAN  HELEIGH,  betrothed  to  Ormskirk,  a  young, 
beautiful  girl  of  a  mild  and  tender  disposition. 

SCENE 
The  east  terrace  of  Halvergate  House. 


April's 

PROEM: — Apologia  pro  Auctore 

'T  occurs  to  me  that  we  here  assume  in 
timacy  with  a  man  of  unusual  achieve 
ment,  and  therefore  tread  upon  quaggy 
premises.  Yet  I  do  but  avail  my  self  of 
to-day's  privilege.  For  people  will  facile- 
ly  assent  to  Don  Adriano's  protestation 
against  a  certain  travesting  of  Hector — "  Sweet  chucks 
beat  not  the  bones  of  the  dead,  for  when  he  breathed  he 
was  a  man" — even  while  through  the  instant  the  tide 
of  romance  will  be  setting  quite  otherwhither,  and  with 
their  condonation.  For  nowadays  the  more  sumptuous 
persons  of  antiquity  are  very  guilty  of  twaddle  on  at 
least  one  printed  page  in  ten,  and  nobody  remonstrates; 
and  in  consequence  here  is  John  Bulmer,  too,  lugged  from 
the  grave  for  your  delectation. 

I  presume,  however,  to  palliate  the  offence.  The 
curious  may  find  the  gist  of  what  I  narrate  concerning 
Ormskirk  in  Heinrich  Lowe's  biography  of  the  man,  and 
will  there  discover  that  with  established  facts  I  have  not 
made  bold  to  juggle.  Only  when  knowledge  failed  have 
I  bridged  the  void  with  speculation.  Perhaps  I  have 
guessed  wrongly ;  the  feat  is  not  unhuman,  and  in  provi 
sion  for  the  event  I  can  only  protest  that  this  lack  of 
omniscience  was  never  due  to  malice;  faithfully  I  have 
endeavored  to  deduce  from  the  known  the  unknown,  to 

141 


(gallantry 

re-create  for  you  this  big  man  of  a  little  age,  this  trout 
among  a  school  of  minnows. 

Trout,  mark  you ;  I  claim  for  Ormskirk  no  leviathanship. 
Rather  I  would  remind  you  of  a  certain  passage  from 
somewhat  anterior  memoirs:  "The  Emperor  of  Lilliput 
is  taller,  by  almost  the  breadth  of  my  nail,  than  any  of 
his  court,  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into  his 
beholders." 

This,  however,  is  not  the  place  to  expatiate  on  Orms- 
kirk's  extraordinary  career;  his  rise  from  penury  and 
obscurity,  tempered  indeed  by  gentle  birth,  to  the  priviest 
secrets  of  his  Majesty's  council — climbing  the  peerage 
step  by  step  as  composedly  as  though  that  institution 
had  been  a  garden-ladder — may  be  read  of  in  the  history 
books. 

11 1  collect  titles  as  an  entomologist  does  butterflies,"  he 
was  wont  to  say ;  "  and  I  find  the  gaudier  ones  the  cheapest. 
My  barony  I  got  for  a  very  heinous  piece  of  perjury,  my 
earldom  for  not  running  away  until  the  latter  end  of  a 
certain  battle,  my  marquisate  for  hoodwinking  a  half- 
senile  Frenchman,  and  my  dukedom  for  giving  a  lapdog  to 
a  lady  whom  the  King  at  that  time  delighted  to  honor." 
It  was,  you  observe,  a  day  of  candor. 


The  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  then  (one  gleans  from  Lowe's 
pages),  waved  the  Audaine  conspiracy  to  the  winds,  and 
sans  delay  set  out  for  Halvergate  House,  the  home  of 
Marian's  father.  There  one  finds  him,  just  six  days  later, 
deep  in  a  consultation  with  his  secretary,  which  in  con 
sideration  of  the  unseasonable  warmth  was  held  upon  the 
east  terrace. 

142 


April's    UfU 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  had  better  have  the  fellow  hanged  on 
the  thirteenth,'*  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  as  he  leisurely 
affixed  his  signature.  "The  date  seems  eminently  ap 
propriate.  Now  the  papers  concerning  the  French  treaty, 
if  you  please,  Mr.  Langton." 

The  impassive-faced  young  man  who  sat  opposite 
placed  a  despatch-box  between  them.  "  These  were  sent 
down  from  London  only  last  night,  sir.  Mr.  Morfit l  has 
been  somewhat  dilatory." 

4 'Eh,  it  scarcely  matters.  I  looked  them  over  in  bed 
this  morning  and  found  them  quite  correct,  Mr.  Langton, 
quite — why,  heyday!"  the  Duke  demanded,  "what's  this? 
You  have  brought  me  the  despatch-box  from  my  dresser 
— not,  as  I  distinctly  told  you,  from  the  table  by  my  bed. 
Nay,  I  have  had  quite  enough  of  mistakes  concerning 
despatch-boxes,  Mr.  Langton." 

Mr.  Langton  stammered  that  the  error  was  natural. 
Two  despatch-boxes  were  in  appearances  so  similar— 

"  Never  make  excuses,  Mr.  Langton.  '  Qui  s 'excuse— 
You  can  complete  the  proverb,  I  suppose.  Bring  me 
Morfit 's  report  this  afternoon,  then.  Yes,  that  appears 
to  be  all.  You  may  go  now,  Mr.  Langton.  No,  you  may 
leave  that  box,  I  think,  since  it  is  here.  O,  man,  man, 
a  mistake  isn't  high  treason!  Go  away,  Mr.  Langton, 
you  annoy  me." 

Left  alone,  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  sat  for  a  while,  tap 
ping  his  fingers  irresolutely  against  the  open  despatch-box. 
Presently  he  took  a  paper  therefrom  and  began  to  read. 

He  sat,  as  one  had  said,  upon  the  east  terrace  of  Halver- 
gate  House.  Behind  him  a  tall  yew-hedge  shut  off  the 
sunlight  from  the  table  where  he  and  Mr.  Langton  had 

1  Perhaps  the  most  adroit  of  all  the  many  spies  in  Ormskirk's  em 
ployment.     It  was  this  same  Morfit  who  in  1756  accompanied  Damiens 
into  France  as  far  as  Calais;  and  see  page  26. 
xo  143 


(Sallautrg 

earlier  completed  divers  businesses;  before  him  a  balus 
trade,  ivy-covered,  and  set  with  flower-pots  of  stone, 
empty  as  yet,  half  screened  the  terraced  gardens  that  sank 
to  the  artificial  lake  below. 

Where  the  Duke  lounged  he  could  see  only  a  vast  ex 
panse  of  sky  and  a  stray  bit  of  Halvergate  printing  the 
horizon  with  turrets,  all  sober  gray  save  where  the  two 
big  copper  cupolas  of  the  south  facade  burned  in  the 
April  sun;  but  by  bending  forward  you  glimpsed  close- 
shaven  lawns  dotted  with  clipped  trees  and  statues — as 
though  Glumdalclitch  had  left  her  toys  scattered  hap 
hazard  about  a  green  blanket — and  the  white  of  the 
broad  marble  stairway  descending  to  the  sunlit  lake  and, 
at  times,  the  flash  of  a  swan's  deliberate  passage  across 
the  lake's  surface.  All  white  and  green  and  blue  the 
vista  was,  and  of  a  monastic  tranquillity,  save  for  the 
plashing  of  a  fountain  behind  the  yew-hedge  and  the 
grumblings  of  an  occasional  bee  as  he  lurched  complain- 
ingly  on  some  by-errand  of  the  hive. 

Presently  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  replaced  the  papers 
in  the  despatch-box,  and,  leaning  forward,  sighed.  "Non 
sum  qualis  eram  sub  bones  regno  Cynaroz"  said  his  Grace 
of  Ormskirk.  He  had  a  statesman-like  partiality  for  the 
fag-end  of  an  alcaic. 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  at  the  sound  of  a  girl's  voice. 
Somewhere  rearward  to  the  hedge  the  girl  idly  sang— an 
old  song  of  Thomas  Hey  wood's— in  a  serene  contralto, 
low-pitched  and  effortless,  but  very  sweet.  Smilingly  the 
Duke  beat  time. 

Sang  the  girl: 

"Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome,  day! 

With  night  we  banish  sof  row : 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft;  mount,  lark,  aloft, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
144 


Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing;  nightingale,  sing, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow." 

And  here  the  Duke  chimed  in  with  a  sufficiently  pleasing 
baritone : 

"To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow." 


"O,  heavens!"  spoke  the  possessor  of  the  contralto, 
"  I  would  have  thought  you  were  far  too  busy  sending 
people  to  gaol  and  arranging  their  execution,  and  so  on, 
to  have  any  time  for  music.  I  am  going  for  a  walk  in 
the  forest,  Jack."  Considering  for  a  moment,  she  event 
ually  conceded:  "You  may  come,  too,  if  you  like." 

But  the  concession  was  made  so  half-heartedly  that  in 
the  instant  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  raised  a  dissenting 
hand.  "  I  would  not  annoy  you  for  an  emperor's  ransom. 
Go  in  peace,  my  child." 

Lady  Marian  Heleigh  stood  at  an  opening  in  the  yew- 
hedge  and  regarded  him  for  a  lengthy  interval  in  silence. 
Slender,  men  called  her,  and  women  "a  bean  pole." 
There  was  about  her  a  great  deal  of  the  child  and  some 
thing  of  the  wood-nymph.  She  had  abundant  hair,  the 
color  of  a  dead  oak-leaf,  and  her  skin  was  clear,  with  a 
brown  tinge.  Her  eyes  puzzled  you  by  being  neither 
brown  nor  green  consistently ;  no  sooner  had  you  convicted 
them  of  verdancy  than  they  shifted  to  the  hue  of  polished 
maple,  and  vice  versa ;  but  they  were  too  large  for  her  face, 
which  narrowed  rather  abruptly  beneath  a  broad,  low 
forehead,  and  flavored  her  aspect  with  the  shrewd  in 
nocence  of  a  kitten.  She  was  by  ordinary  grave,  but 
animated,  her  countenance  quickened  with  the  glow  of  a 


(KaUatttrg 

brown  diamond;  then  her  generous  eyes  flashed  and 
filmed  like  water  on  a  moonless  night,  and  you  saw 
that  she  was  beautiful.  All  in  all,  I  judge  her  to  have 
been  a  woman  designed  for  petting,  a  Columbine  rather 
than  a  Cleopatra ;  her  lures  would  never  shake  the  stability 
of  a  kingdom,  but  would  inevitably  gut  its  toy-shops ;  and 
her  departure  left  you  dreaming  less  of  high  enterprises 
than  of  buying  something  for  her. 

Now  Marian  considered  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  her 
betrothed,  and  came  at  last  to  a  conclusion  that  skirted 
platitude.  "Jack,"  she  finally  pointed  out,  and  with  a 
hint  of  resentment,  "  two  people  can  be  fond  of  one  an 
other  without  wanting  to  be  together  all  the  time.  And 
I  am  fond  of  you,  Jack." 

"  I  would  be  a  fool  if  I  questioned  the  first  statement," 
rejoined  the  Duke;  "and  if  I  questioned  the  second,  very 
miserable.  Nevertheless,  you  go  in  pursuit  of  strange 
gods,  and  I  decline  to  follow." 

Her  eyebrows  interrogated  him. 

"You  are  going,"  the  Duke  continued,  "in  pursuit  of 
gods  beside  whom  I  esteem  Zidcnian  Ashtoreth,  and  Che- 
mosh,  and  Milcom,  the  abomination  of  the  Ammonites, 
comparatively  desirable  acquaintances.  You  will  pardon 
my  pedantic  display  of  learning,  for  my  feelings  are 
strong.  You  are  going  to  sit  in  the  woods.  You  will 
probably  sit  under  a  youngish  tree,  and  its  branches  will 
sway  almost  to  the  ground  and  make  a  green,  sun-steeped 
tent  about  you,  as  though  you  sat  at  the  heart  of  an 
emerald.  You  will  hear  the  kindly  wood-gods  go  stealth 
ily  about  the  forest,  and  you  will  know  that  they  are 
watching  you,  but  you  will  never  see  them.  From  be 
hind  every  tree-bole  they  will  watch  you ;  you  feel  it,  but 
you  never,  never  quite  see  them.  Presently  the  sweet, 
warm  odors  of  the  place  and  its  perpetual  whispering  and 

146 


the  illimitably  idiotic  boasting  of  the  birds — that  any 
living  creature  should  be  proud  of  having  constructed 
one  of  their  nasty  little  nests  is  a  reflection  to  baffle  under 
standing — this  hodge-podge  of  sensations,  I  say,  will  in 
toxicate  you.  Yes,  it  will  thoroughly  intoxicate  you, 
Marian,  and  you  will  be  quite  still  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 
drugged  into  the  inebriate's  magnanimity,  firmly  believ 
ing  that  the  remainder  of  your  life  will  be  throughout 
of  finer  texture — earth-spurning,  free  from  all  pettiness, 
and  at  worst  vexed  only  by  the  noblest  sorrows.  Bah!" 
cried  the  Duke;  "I  have  no  patience  with  such  nonsense! 
You  will  believe  it  to  the  tiniest  syllable,  that  wonderful 
lying  message  April  whispers  to  every  living  creature  that 
is  young — then  you  will  return  to  me,  a  slim,  star-eyed 
Maenad,  and  see  that  I  am  wrinkled.  But  go,  Marian! 
April  is  waiting  for  you  yonder — beautiful,  mendacious, 
splendid  April.  And  I?  Faith,  she  has  no  message  for 
me,  my  dear." 

He  laughed,  but  with  a  touch  of  wistfulness;  and  the 
girl  came  to  him,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  surprised 
into  a  sort  of  timid  affection. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  breathed.  "How  did  you 
know  that — things,  invisible,  gracious  things,  went  about 
the  spring  woods?  I  never  thought  that  you  knew  of 
them.  You  always  seemed  so  sensible.  I  have  reasoned 
it  out,  though,"  Marian  went  on,  and  sagaciously  wrinkled 
as  to  the  brow.  "They  are  probably  the  heathen  fauns 
and  satyrs  and  such — one  feels  somehow  that  they  are 
all  men.  Don't  you,  Jack?  Well,  when  the  elder  gods 
were  sent  packing  from  Olympus  there  was  naturally  no 
employment  left  for  these  sylvan  folk.  So  April  took 
them  into  her  service.  Each  year  she  sends  them  about 
every  forest  on  her  errands;  as,  to  fashion  the  daffodil- 
cups,  for  instance,  which  I  suppose  is  difficult,  for  evi- 

147 


(gallantry 

dently  they  make  them  out  of  sunshine;  or  to  pencil 
the  eyelids  of  the  narcissi  —  narcissi  are  brazen  creat 
ures,  Jack,  and  use  a  deal  of  kohl;  or  to  marshal  the 
fleecy  young  clouds  about  the  sky;  or  to  whistle  the 
birds  up  from  the  south.  O,  she  keeps  them  busy, 
does  April !  And  'tis  true  that  if  you  be  quite  still  you 
can  hear  them  tripping  among  the  dead  leaves ;  and  they 
watch  you — with  very  bright,  twinkling  little  eyes,  I 
think — but  you  never  see  them.  And  always,  always 
there  is  that  enormous  whispering,  half -friendly,  half- 
menacing — as  if  the  woods  were  trying  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  Tis  not  only  the  foliage  rustling.  .  .  .  No,  I  have 
often  thought  it  sounded  like  some  gigantic  foreigner — 
some  Titan  probably — trying  in  his  own  queer  and  out 
landish  language  to  tell  you  something  very  important, 
something  that  means  a  deal  to  you,  and  to  you  in  par 
ticular.  Has  no  one  ever  understood  him,  Jack?"  she 
queried,  with  a  wistfulness  which  was  but  partly  humorous. 

He  smiled.  "And  I,  too,  have  dwelt  in  Arcadia,"  said 
his  Grace  of  Ormskirk.  "Yes,  I  once  heard  April's 
message,  Marian,  for  all  my  crow's-feet.  But  that  was  a 
long  while  ago,  and  perhaps  I  have  forgotten  it.  I  cannot 
tell,  my  dear.  It  is  only  from  April  in  her  own  person 
that  one  hears  this  immemorial  message.  And  as  for  me  ? 
Eh,  I  go  into  the  April  woods,  and  I  find  trees  there  of 
various  sizes  that  pay  no  attention  to  me,  and  shrill,  dingy 
little  birds  that  deafen  me,  and  it  may  be  a  gaudy  flower 
or  two,  and,  in  any  event,  a  vast  quantity  of  sodden,  de 
caying  leaves  to  warn  me  the  place  is  no  fitting  haunt  for 
a  gentleman  afflicted  with  rheumatism.  So  I  come  away, 
my  dear." 

Marian  looked  him  over  for  a  moment.  "  You  are  not 
really  old,"  she  said,  with  rather  conscious  politeness. 
"And  you  are  wonderfully  well-preserved.  Why,  Jack, 

148 


do  you  mind — not  being  foolish?"  she  demanded,  on  a 
sudden. 

He  debated  the  matter.  Then,  "Yes,"  the  Duke  of 
Ormskirk  conceded,  "I  suppose,  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  I  regret  that  lost  folly.  A  part  of  me  died,  you 
see,  when  it  vanished,  and  it  is  not  exhilarating  to  think 
of  one's  self  as  even  partially  dead.  Once  —  I  hardly 
know" — he  sought  the  phrase — "once  this  was  a  spacious 
world  of  interesting  construction  and  filled  with  wonder 
ful  men  and  women — some  amiable,  and  some  detestable, 
but  every  one  of  them  very  interesting.  And  now  I  miss 
the  wonder  of  it  all.  You  will  presently  discover,  my 
dear,  that  youth  is  only  an  ingenious  prologue  to  whet 
one's  appetite  for  a  rather  dull  play.  Eh,  I  am  no  pessi 
mist — one  may  still  find  satisfaction  in  the  exercise  of 
mind  and  body,  in  the  pleasures  of  thought  and  taste  and 
other  titillations  of  one's  faculties.  Dinner  is  good  and 
sleep,  too,  is  excellent.  But  we  men  and  women — flies, 
flies,  Marian!  I  protest  to  you  we  seem,  when  I  think  of 
it — you  and  I  and  all  the  myriads  yonder — very  paltry 
flies  that  buzz  and  bustle  aimlessly  about,  and  breed  per 
haps,  and  eventually  die,  and  rot,  and  are  swept  away 
from  this  fragile  window-pane  of  time  that  opens  on 
eternity." 

"If  you  are,  indeed,  the  sort  of  person  you  describe," 
said  Marian,  reflectively,  "why,  then,  I  scarcely  blame 
April  for  having  no  communication  with  any  one  pos 
sessed  of  such  extremely  heterodox  and  unpleasant  opin 
ions.  But  for  my  own  part,  I  shall  never  cease  to  wonder 
what  it  is  the  woods  whisper  about  so  zealously." 

Appraising  her,  he  hazarded  a  cryptic  question :  "  Have 
you  never — cared,  Marian?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  so,"  she  answered,  readily  enough. 
"At  least,  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  Humphrey  Degge — 

149 


(gallantry 

that  is  the  Marquis  of  Venour's  place  yonder,  you  know, 
just  past  the  spur  of  the  forest — but  he  was  only  a  younger 
son,  so  of  course  father  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  That  was 
rather  fortunate,  as  Humphrey  presently  went  mad  for 
Dorothy's  bright  eyes  and  fine  shape — I  think  her  money 
had  a  deal  to  do  with  it,  too — and  so  we  quarrelled.  And 
I  minded  it — at  first.  And  now — well,  I  scarcely  know." 
Marian  hesitated.  "He  was  a  handsome  man,  but  his 
mustache  was  so  bristly — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  the  Duke. 

" — that  it  disfigured  him  dreadfully,"  said  she,  with 
firmness.  She  had  colored,  though. 

His  Grace  of  Ormskirk  was  moved  to  mirth.  "Child, 
child,"  said  he,  "you  are  so  deliciously  young  it  appears 
a  monstrous  crime  to  marry  you  to  an  old  fellow  like  me!" 
He  took  her  firm,  soft  hand  in  his.  "Are  you  quite  sure 
you  can  endure  me,  Marian?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  intend  to  marry  you,"  she  said, 
naively  surprised.  "How  else  could  I  be  Duchess  of 
Ormskirk?" 

Again  he  chuckled.  "  You  are  a  worldly  little  wretch," 
he  stated;  "but  if  you  want  my  title  for  a  new  toy,  it  is 
at  your  service.  And  now  be  off  with  you — you  and 
your  foolish  woods,  indeed!" 

Marian  went  a  slight  distance  and  then  turned  about, 
plainly  troubled.  "  I  am  really  very  fond  of  you,  Jack," 
she  said,  conscientiously. 

"Be  off  with  you!"  the  Duke  scolded.  "You  should 
be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  practice  such  blandishments 
on  a  defenceless  old  gentleman.  You  had  best  hurry,  too, 
for  if  you  don't  I — I  shall  probably  kiss  you,"  he  threat 
ened.  "I,  also,"  he  added,  with  point. 

She  blew  him  a  kiss  from  her  finger-tips  and  went  away 
singing. 


Sang  Marian: 


"  Blackbird  and  thrush,  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Sing  birds,  in  every  furrow." 


II 

Left  to  his  own  resources,  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  sat 
down  once  more  beside  the  table  and  fell  to  making  ir 
relevant  marks  upon  a  bit  of  paper,  what  time  he  hummed 
the  air  of  Marian's  song.  There  was  a  vague  contention 
in  his  face.  Once  he  put  out  his  hand  toward  the  open 
despatch-box,  but  immediately  he  sighed  and  pushed  it 
further  from  him.  Presently  he  propped  his  chin  upon 
both  hands  and  stayed  in  the  attitude  for  a  long  while, 
staring  past  the  balustrade  at  the  clear,  pale  sky  of  April. 

Thus  Marian's  father,  the  Earl  of  Brudenel,  found  him. 
The  Earl  was  a  deep-wrinkled  man,  some  three  years 
older  than  his  prospective  son-in-law,  and  his  intimate 
since  boyhood.  Ormskirk  had  perhaps  for  Lord  Bru- 
denel's  society  the  liking  that  a  successful  person  usually 
has  for  the  audience  of  his  outri vailed  school-fellows,  since 
Brudenel  was  an  embodied  commentary  as  to  what  a  less 
able  man  might  make  of  chances  far  more  auspicious  than 
Ormskirk  ever  enjoyed.  All  failure  the  Earl's  life  had 
been;  in  London  they  had  long  ago  forgotten  handsome 
Harry  Heleigh  and  the  composure  with  which  he  nightly 
shoved  his  dwindling  patrimony  across  the  gaming 
table;  and  about  Halvergate  men  called  him  "the 
muddled  Earl,"  and  said  of  him  that  his  heart  died  with 
his  young  wife  some  eighteen  years  back.  Now  he  vege- 


(gallantry 

tated  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  contentedly,  a  veteran 
of  life  with  a  mild  pride  in  his  past  vagaries ; l  and  kindly 
time  had  armed  him  with  the  benumbing,  impenetrable 
indifference  of  the  confessed  failure  —  courteous,  even 
apologetic,  to  a  ploughman,  he  would  not,  you  felt,  have 
given  his  undivided  attention  to  an  emperor. 

"Dreamer!"  said  the  Earl.  "I  do  not  wonder  that 
you  grow  fat." 

The  Duke  smiled  up  at  him.  "  Confound  you,  Harry!" 
said  he,  "I  had  just  overreached  myself  into  believing  I 
had  made  what  the  world  calls  a  mess  of  my  career  and 
was  supremely  happy.  There  are  disturbing  influences 
abroad  to-day."  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  green- 
and-white  gardens.  "  Old  friend,  you  permit  disreputable 
trespassers  about  Halvergate.  '  See  you  not  Goldy-locks 
there,  in  her  yellow  gown  and  green  sleeves  ?  the  profane 
pipes,  the  tinkling  timbrels?'  Spring  is  at  her  wiles 
yonder — Spring,  the  liar,  the  queen-cheat,  Spring  that 
tricks  all  men  into  happiness." 

"Tore  Gad,"  the  Earl  capped  his  quotation,  "if  the 
heathen  man  could  stop  his  ears  with  wax  against  the 
singing  woman  of  the  sea,  then  do  you  the  like  with  your 
fingers  against  that  trollop  of  the  forest." 

"Faith,  time  seals  them  firmlier  than  wax.  You  and 
I  may  sit  snug  now  with  never  a  quicker  heart-beat  for 
all  her  lures.  Yet  I  seem  to  remember  —  once  a  long 
while  ago  when  we  old  fellows  were  somewhat  sprier — 
I,  too,  seem  to  remember — this  Spring-magic." 

"Indeed,"  observed  the  Earl,  seating  himself  pon 
derously,  "if  you  refer  to  a  certain  inclination  at  that 

1  It  was  then  well  said  of  him  by  Claridge,  "It  is  Lord  Henry  He- 
leigh's  vanity  to  show  that  he  is  a  man  of  pleasure  as  well  as  of  busi 
ness;  and  thus,  in  settlement,  the  expedition  he  displays  toward  a  fellow- 
gambler  is  equitably  balanced  by  his  tardiness  toward  a  too-credulous 
shoemaker." 


period  of  the  year  toward  the  likeliest  wench  in  the 
neighborhood,  so  do  I.  'Tis  an  obvious  provision  of 
nature,  I  take  it,  to  secure  the  perpetuation  of  the  species. 
Spring  comes,  and  she  sets  us  all  mating — humanity, 
partridges,  poultry,  pigs,  every  blessed  one  of  us  she  sets 
a-mating.  Propagation,  Jack — propagation  is  necessary, 
you  see ;  because,"  the  Earl  conclusively  demanded,  "  what 
on  earth  would  become  of  us  if  we  didn't  propagate?" 

"The  argument  is  unanswerable,"  the  Duke  conceded. 
"  Yet  I  miss  it — this  Spring-magic  that  no  longer  sets  the 
blood  of  us  staid  fellows  a-fret." 

"  And  I,"  said  Lord  Brudenel,  " do  not.  It  got  me  into 
the  deuce  of  a  scrape  more  than  once." 

"  Yours  is  the  sensible  view,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  Yet  I  miss 
it.  Ah,  it  is  not  only  the  wenches  and  the  red  lips  of  old 
years — it  is  not  only  that  at  this  season  lasses'  hearts  grow 
tender.  There  are  some  verses — "  The  Duke  quoted, 
with  a  half -guilty  air : 

"I  lie  i'  the  grass  with  the  branches  swaying, 
Laughing  and  lisping,  over  my  head, 
Whispering  softly  that  Winter  is  fled, 
And  over  his  ruins  a  world  goes  Maying. 

"And  somewhere  sensible  men  are  saying 

The  sensible  things  that  their  fathers  said, 
But  I  lie  i'  the  grass  with  the  branches  swaying 
Over  my  head." 

"Verses!"  the  Earl  snorted  here.     "At  your  age!" 

"For  the  hand  of  Spring,  that  is  fresh  from  slaying 
Tyrant  Winter  that  now  is  dead, 
Catches  the  crocus,  staining  it  red; 
And  Mirth,  that  is  heir  to  him,  follows  slaying 
All  lesser  griefs  that  the  Tyrant  bred: 
153 


(gallantry 

"  And  the  clouds  are  marshalling  overhead — 
The  little  clouds  that  are  half-afraid ; 
And  now  that  the  daffodil  hosts  are  arraying, 
And  out  of  the  south  come  the  land-winds  playing, 
I  lie  i'  the  grass  with  the  branches  swaying 
Over  my  head. 

"  And  to-day  I  cannot  do  so  any  longer.  That  is  what 
I  most  miss,  Harry — the  ability  to  lie  a-sprawl  in  the 
spring  grass  and  dream  out  an  uncharted  world — a  dream 
so  vivid  that  beside  it  reality  grew  tenuous  and  the  actual 
world  one  of  childhood's  shrug-provoking  bugbears  dimly 
remembered." 

"I  do  not  understand  poetry,"  the  Earl  apologetically 
observed.  "It  appears  to  me  unreasonable  to  advance 
a  statement  simply  because  it  happens  to  rhyme  with  a 
statement  you  have  previously  made.  And  that  is  what 
all  you  poets  do.  Why,  this  is  very  remarkable,"  said 
Lord  Brudenel,  with  a  change  of  tone;  " yonder  is  young 
Humphrey  Degge  with  Marian.  I  had  thought  him  in 
bed  at  Tunbridge.  Did  I  not  hear  something  of  an 
affair  with  a  house-breaker — ?" 

Then  the  Earl  gave  an  exclamation,  for  in  full  view  of 
them  Lord  Humphrey  Degge  was  kissing  Lord  Brudenel's 
daughter. 

"O,  the  devil!"  said  the  Earl.  "O,  the  insolent  young 
ape!" 

"Nay,"  said  the  Duke,  restraining  him;  "not  partic 
ularly  insolent,  Harry.  If  you  will  observe  more  closely 
you  will  see  that  Marian  does  not  exactly  object  to  his  ca 
resses — quite  the  contrary,  I  would  say.  I  told  you  that 
you  should  not  permit  Spring  about  the  premises." 

The  Earl  wheeled  in  an  extreme  of  astonishment. 
"Come,  come,  sir!  she  is  your  betrothed  wife!  Do  you 
not  intend  to  kill  the  fellow?" 


April's 

"My  faith,  why?"  said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  with  a 
shrug.  "  Don't  you  see  that  she  loves  him  ?" 

Brudenel  raised  his  hands  toward  heaven  in  a  con 
troversy  of  despair  and  rage.  One  of  the  best  matches 
in  the  three  kingdoms  imperilled  by  that  chit's  idiocy! 

Marian  and  Lord  Humphrey  Degge  were  mounting 
from  the  scrap  of  forest  that  juts  from  Pevis  Hill,  like 
a  spur  from  a  man's  heel,  between  Agard  Court  and 
Halvergate.  Their  progress  was  not  conspicuous  for  its 
celerity.  Now,  though,  they  had  attained  to  the  tiny,  elm- 
shadowed  plateau  beyond  the  yew-hedge,  and  there  Marian 
paused.  Two  daffodils  had  fallen  from  the  great  green-and- 
yellow  cluster  in  her  left  hand.  Humphrey  Degge  lifted 
them,  and  then  raised  to  his  mouth  the  slender  fingers 
that  reached  toward  them.  The  man's  pallor,  you  would 
have  said,  was  not  altogether  due  to  his  recent  wound. 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him,  smiling  a  little  timidly, 
her  teeth  glinting  through  parted  lips,  her  eyes  star-fire, 
her  cheeks  blazoning  gules  in  his  honor,  and  seeming  not 
to  breathe  at  all.  A  faint  twinge  woke  in  the  Duke  of 
Ormskirk 's  heart.  Most  women  smiled  upon  him,  but  they 
smiled  beneath  furtive  eyes,  sometimes  beneath  rapacious 
eyes,  and  with  reddened  lips  which  strove,  uneasily,  to 
provoke  a  rental ;  and  how  long,  he  wondered,  simply,  since 
any  woman  had  smiled  as  Marian  smiled  now,  for  him  ? 

"I  think  it  is  a  dream,"  said  Marian. 

From  the  vantage  of  the  yew-hedge:  "I  would  to 
Heaven  I  could  think  so,  too,"  observed  her  father. 


Ill 

The  younger  people  had  passed  out  of  sight.     But  from 
the  rear  of  the  hedge  there  came  to  the  Duke  and  Lord 


(gallantry 

Brudenel,  staring  blankly  at  one  another  across  the  paper- 
littered  table,  a  sort  of  duet.  First  tenor,  then  contralto, 
then  tenor  again — and  so  on,  with  many  long  intervals  of 
silence,  during  which  you  heard  the  plashing  of  the  foun 
tain,  grown  doubly  audible,  and,  it  might  be,  the  sharp, 
plaintive  cry  of  a  bird  intensified  by  the  stillness. 

"I  think  it  is  a  dream,"  said  Marian. 

''What  eyes  you  have,  Marian!" 

"But  you  have  not  kissed  the  littlest  finger  of  all.  See, 
it  is  quite  stiff  with  indignation." 

"They  are  green,  and  brown,  and  yellow — O,  Marian, 
there  are  little  gold  specks  in  them  like  those  in  eau  de 
Dantzig!  They  are  quite  wonderful  eyes,  Marian.  And 
your  hair  is  all  streaky  gold-and-brown.  You  should  not 
have  two  colors  in  your  hair,  Marian.  Marian,  did  any 
one  ever  tell  you  that  you  are  very  beautiful  ?" 

Silence.     "Pee-weet!"  said  a  bird.     "Pee-weet!" 

"I  am  devoted  to  Dorothy,  of  course,  but  I  have  never 
admired  her  fashion  of  making  advances  to  every  man 
she  meets.  Yes,  she  does."  And  this  was  distinctly 
vicious. 

"Nay,  'twas  only  her  money  that  lured  me,  to  do  her 
justice.  It  appeared  so  very  sensible  to  marry  an  heir 
ess.  .  .  .  But  how  can  any  man  be  sensible  so  long  as 
he  is  haunted  by  the  memory  of  your  eyes,  Marian  ?  For 
see  how  bright  they  are — see,  here  in  the  water.  Two 
stars  have  fallen  into  the  fountain,  Marian." 

"You  are  handsomer  so.  Your  nose  is  too  short,  but 
here  in  the  fountain  you  are  quite  handsome — " 

"Marian—" 

"I  wonder  how  many  other  women's  fingers  you  have 
kissed — like  that.  Ah,  don't  tell  me,  Humphrey!  Hum 
phrey,  promise  me  that  you  will  always  lie  to  me  when  I 
ask  you  about  those  other  women.  Lie  to  me,  my  dear, 

156 


and  I  will  know  that  you  are  lying  and  love  you  all  the 
better  for  it.  ...  You  should  not  have  told  me  about 
Dorothy.  Did  you  ever  kiss  Dorothy?" 

"But  who  was  this  Dorothy  you  speak  of,  Marian? 
I  have  forgotten.  O,  yes  —  we  quarrelled  —  over  some 
woman — and  I  went  away.  I  left  you  for  a  mere  heiress, 
Marian.  You!  And  five  days  ago  while  I  lay  abed, 
wounded,  I  heard  you  were  to  marry  Ormskirk.  I 
thought  I  would  go  mad.  ...  Eh,  I  remember  now.  But 
what  do  these  things  matter?  Is  it  not  of  far  greater 
importance  that  the  sunlight  turns  your  hair  to  pure 
topaz?" 

"Ah,  my  hair,  my  eyes!  Is  it  these  you  care  for?  You 
would  not  love  me,  then,  if  I  were  old  and  ugly?" 

"Eh — I  love  you." 

"Animal!" 

There  was  a  longer  silence  now.  " Tweet!"  said  a  bird, 
pertly. 

Then  Marian  said:  "Let  us  go  to  my  father." 

"To  tell  him— ?" 

"Why,  that  I  love  you,  I  suppose,  and  that  I  cannot 
marry  Jack,  even  to  be  a  duchess.  O,  I  did  want  to  be 
a  duchess!  But  when  you  came  back  to  me  yonder  in 
the  forest,  somehow  I  stopped  wanting  anything  more. 
Something — I  hardly  know — something  seemed  to  say,  as 
you  came  striding  through  the  dead  leaves,  laughing  and 
so  very  pale — something  seemed  to  say,  '  You  love  him' 
— O,  quite  audibly." 

"Audibly!  Why,  the  woods  whispered  it,  the  birds 
trilled  it,  screamed  it,  the  very  leaves  underfoot  crackled 
assent.  Only  they  said :  *  You  love  her^the  girl  yonder 
with  glad,  frightened  eyes,  Spring's  daughter.'  O,  I  too, 
heard  it,  Marian!  'Follow,'  the  birds  sang,  'follow,  fol 
low,  follow,  for  yonder  is  the  heart's  desire!"1 


The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  raised  his  head,  his  lips  sketching 
a  whistle.  "Ah!  ah!"  he  muttered.  "Eureka!  I  have 
recaptured  it — the  message  of  April." 


IV 

When  these  two  had  gone  the  Duke  flung  out  his  hands 
in  a  comprehensive  gesture  of  giving  up  the  entire  matter. 
"Well,"  said  he,  "you  see  how  it  is!" 

"I  do,"  Lord  Brudenel  assented.  "And  if  you  intend 
to  sit  patient  under  it,  I,  at  least,  wear  a  sword.  Con 
found  it,  Jack,  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  have  pro 
miscuous  young  men  dropping  out  of  the  skies  and  em 
bracing  my  daughter?"  The  Earl  became  forceful  in  his 
language. 

"Harry—  '  the  Duke  began. 

"The  fellow  hasn't  a  penny — not  a  stick  or  a  stiver  to 
his  name!  He's  only  a  rascally,  impudent  younger  son — 
and  even  Venour  has  nothing  except  Agard  Court  yonder ! 
That  —  that  crow's  nest!"  Lord  Brudenel  spluttered. 
"They  mooned  about  together  a  great  deal  a  year  ago,  but 
I  thought  nothing  of  it ;  then  he  went  away,  and  she  never 
spoke  of  him  again.  Never  spoke  of  him — O,  the  jade!" 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  seated  himself  and  considered 
the  affair,  a  mild  amusement  waking  in  his  plump  face, 

"Old  friend,"  said  he,  at  length,  "it  is  my  opinion  that 
we  are  perilously  near  to  being  a  couple  of  fools.  We 
planned  this  marriage,  you  and  I — dear,  dear,  we  planned 
it  when  Marian  was  scarcely  out  of  her  cradle!  But  we 
failed  to  take  nature  into  the  plot,  Harry.  It  was  sen 
sible —  O,  granted!  I  obtained  a  suitable  mistress  for 
Ingilby  and  Bottreaux  Towers,  a  magnificent  ornament 
for  my  coach  and  my  opera-box;  you — and  pardon  me  if 

158 


I  word  it  somewhat  grossly — you,  in  effect,  obtained  a 
wealthy  and  not  uninfluential  husband  for  your  daughter. 
Nay,  I  think  you  are  fond  of  me,  but  that  is  beside  the 
mark;  it  was  not  Jack  Bulmer  who  was  to  marry  your 
daughter,  but  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk.  The  thing  was  as 
logical  as  a  sale  of  bullocks — value  for  value.  But  now 
nature  intervenes,  and"-— he  snapped  his  fingers — "eh, 
well,  since  she  wants  this  Humphrey  Degge,  of  course  she 
must  have  him." 

Lord  Brudenel  mentioned  several  penalties  he  would 
voluntarily  incur  in  case  of  that  event  taking  place. 

"Your  style,"  the  Duke  regretfully  observed,  "is  some 
what  more  original  than  your  subject.  You  have  a  hand 
some  daughter  to  barter,  and  you  want  your  price.  The 
thing  is  very  far  from  uncommon.  Yet  you  shall  have 
your  price,  Harry.  What  estate  do  you  demand  of  your 
son-in-law?" 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  driving  at  ?"  said  Lord  Brudenel. 

Composedly  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  spread  out  his  hands. 
"You  have,  in  effect,  placed  Marian  in  the  market,"  he 
said,  "and  I  offer  to  give  Lord  Humphrey  Degge  the 
money  wherewith  to  purchase  her." 

"  Tis  evident,"  the  Earl  considered,  "that  you  are 
demented!" 

"Because  I  willingly  part  with  money?  But  I  have 
so  much,  you  see  —  ah,  yes,"  said  the  great  Duke  of 
Ormskirk,  "I  have  money  and  power,  and  the  King  oc 
casionally  pats  me  upon  the  shoulder,  and  men  call  me 
'your  Grace,'  instead  of  'my  Lord,'  as  they  do  you.  I 
ought  to  be  very  happy,  ought  I  not,  Harry?  Ah,  yes,  I 
ought  to  be,  because  I  have  had  everything — everything 
— with  the  unimportant  exception  of  the  one  thing  I 
wanted."  And  his  head  sank  a  little  wearily  upon  his 
hand  as  he  sat  leaning  forward  over  the  table. 


But  Lord  Brudenel  had  drawn  himself  erect  very 
stiffly.  "  I  am  to  understand,  then,  from  this  farrago, 
that  on  account  of  the — um — a — incident  we  have  just 
witnessed  you  decline  to  marry  my  daughter?" 

"  I  would  sooner  cut  off  my  right  hand,"  said  the  Duke, 
"because  I  love  her  better  than  anything  in  the  world." 

"O,  very  well!"  the  Earl  conceded,  sulkily.  "Um- 
fraville  wants  her.  He  is  only  a  marquis,  of  course,  but 
so  far  as  money  is  concerned,  I  believe  he  is  a  thought 
better  off  than  you.  I  would  have  preferred  you  as  a 
son-in-law,  you  understand,  but  since  you  withdraw — 
why,  then,  let  it  be  Umfraville." 

Now  the  Duke  looked  up  into  his  face  for  a  long  while. 
"You  would  do  that!"  he  breathed.  "You  would  sell 
Marian  to  Umfraville  * — to  a  person  who  unites  the  con 
tinence  of  a  partridge  with  the  graces  of  a  Berkshire  hog 
— to  that  goat,  that  disease-rotted  goat!  Because  he  has 
the  money!  O  God,  Harry,  what  a  cur  you  are!" 

Lord  Brudenel  bowed  to  him  as  he  sat  sneering  across 
the  table.  "My  Lord  Duke,  you  are  to-day  my  guest. 
I  apprehend  you  will  presently  be  leaving  Halvergate, 
however,  and  as  soon  as  that  regrettable  event  takes 
place,  I  shall  see  to  it  a  friend  wait  upon  you  with  the 
length  of  my  sword.  Meanwhile  I  venture  to  reserve  the 
privilege  of  managing  my  family  affairs  at  my  own  dis 
cretion." 

"  I  do  not  fight  with  hucksters,"  the  Duke  flung  at  him, 
"and  you  are  one.  O,  you  peddler!  Can  you  not  un 
derstand  that  I  am  trying  to  buy  your  daughter's  happi 
ness?" 

"I  intend  that  my  daughter  shall  make  a  suitable 
match,"  replied  the  Earl,  stubbornly,  "and  she  shall.  If 

1  "Whose  entrance  blushing  Satan  did  deny 
Lest  hell  be  thought  no  better  than  a  sty." 
1 60 


she  is  a  sensible  girl — and,  barring  to-day,  I  have  always 
esteemed  her  such — she  will  find  happiness  in  obeying 
her  father's  mandates;  otherwise — "  He  waved  the  im 
probable  contingency  aside. 

"Sensible!  Faith,  can  you  not  see,  even  now,  that  to 
be  sensible  is  not  the  highest  wisdom?  You  and  I  are 
sensible  as  the  world  goes — and  in  God's  name,  what  good 
does  it  do  us?  Here  we  sit,  two  miserable  and  empty- 
veined  old  men  squabbling  over  a  deal-table,  breaking 
up  a  friendship  of  thirty  years.  And  yonder  Marian  and 
this  Humphrey  Degge — who  are  within  a  measurable  dis 
tance  of  insanity,  if  their  conversation  be  the  touchstone 
—yet  tread  the  pinnacles  of  some  seventh  heaven  of  hap 
piness.  April  has  brought  them  love,  Harry.  O,  I  con 
cede  that  love  is  folly!  But  it  is  all  folly,  Harry  Heleigh 
—yes,  even  the  things  we  sensible  men  strive  for  are 
folly.  Purses,  titles,  blue  ribbons,  and  the  envy  of  our 
fellows — these  are  the  toys  we  struggle  for,  we  sensible 
men,  and  in  the  end  we  find  them  only  toys,  and,  gaining 
them,  we  gain  only  weariness.  And  love,  too,  is  a  toy; 
but,  gaining  love,  we  gain,  at  least,  a  temporary  happiness. 
There  is  the  difference,  Harry  Heleigh. 

"  O,  have  done  with  your  balderdash!"  said  Lord  Brude- 
nel.  He  spoke  irritably,  for  he  knew  his  position  to  be 
guaranteed  by  common  -  sense,  and  his  slow  wrath  was 
kindling  at  opposition. 

His  Grace  of  Ormskirk  rose  to  his  feet,  all  tension.  In 
the  act  his  hand  struck  against  the  open  despatch-box; 
and  afterward,  with  a  swift  alteration  of  countenance,  he 
overturned  it  and  scattered  the  contents  about  the  table. 
For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  forget  Lord  Brudenel;  quite 
without  warning  a  mastering  rage  then  seized  him. 

"  Harry  Heleigh,  Harry  Heleigh!"  he  cried,  as  he  strode 
across  the  terrace,  and  caught  Lord  Brudenel  roughly  by 

161 


(galluntrg 

the  shoulder,  "are  you  not  content  to  go  to  your  grave 
without  killing  another  woman?  O,  you  dotard  miser! 
• — you  haberdasher! — haven't  I  offered  you  money,  and 
isn't  money  the  only  thing  you  are  now  capable  of  caring 
for?  Give  the  girl  to  Degge,  you  huckster!" 

Lord  Brudenel  broke  from  his  grasp,  spluttering  with 
rage.  "  I  will  see  you  damned  first.  You  offer  money — 
I  fling  the  money  in  your  fat  face.  Look  you,  you  have 
just  insulted  me  and  now  you  offer — money!  Another 
insult.  John  Bulmer,  I  would  not  accept  an  affront  like 
this  from  an  archangel.  You  are  my  guest,  but  I  am 
only  flesh  and  blood.  I  swear  to  you  this  is  the  most 
deliberate  act  of  my  life."  Lord  Brudenel  struck  him 
full  upon  the  cheek. 

"  Pardon,"  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk.  He  stood 
rigid,  his  arms  held  stiff  at  his  sides,  his  hands  clenched; 
the  red  mark  showed  very  plain  against  an  ashy  coun 
tenance.  "Pardon  me  for  a  moment.  I  never  accepted 
a  blow  before  this."  Once  or  twice  he  opened  and  shut 
his  eyes  like  an  automaton.  "But  I  have  other  matters 
to  attend  to.  We  are  wise,  Harry — you  and  I.  We  know 
that  love  sometimes  does  not  endure;  sometimes  it  flares 
up  at  a  girl's  glance,  quite  suddenly,  and  afterward 
smoulders  out  into  indifference  or  even  hatred.  So,  say 
we,  let  all  sensible  people  marry  for  money,  for  then  in 
any  event  you  get  what  you  marry  for — a  material  benefit, 
a  tangible  advantage  which  does  not  vanish  when  the  first 
squabble,  or  perhaps  the  first  gray  hair,  arrives.  That 
is  sensible;  but  women,  Harry,  are  never  sensible.  Give 
a  woman  to  a  man  she  does  not  love,  and  just  one  of  two 
things  happens,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  woman: 
either  you  make  her  a  courtesan,  you  make  of  marriage  a 
liaison  countenanced  by  the  constable,  or — you  kill  the 
woman.  And  as  God  lives,  you  shall  not  kill  Marian!" 

162 


April's 

"Draw,  you  coward!"  Lord  Brudenel  snarled  at  him. 
The  Earl  had  already  lugged  out  his  ineffectual  dress 
sword,  and  would  have  been,  as  he  stood  on  guard,  a 
ludicrous  figure  had  he  not  been  rather  terrible.  His  rage 
shook  him  visibly,  and  his  obstinate  mouth  twitched  and 
snapped  like  that  of  a  beast  cornered.  All  gray  he  was, 
and  the  April  wind  played  with  his  scanty  hair  as  he 
waited.  His  eyes  were  coals. 

But  Ormskirk  had  by  this  regained  his  composure. 
"You  know  that  I  am  not  a  coward,"  the  Duke  said, 
equably.  "  I  have  proven  it  many  times.  Besides,  only 
gentlemen  fight  duels,  and  just  now  we  are  hucksters, 
you  and  I,  chaffering  over  Marian's  happiness.  You  will 
not  sell  it  to  me  for  money?  Why,  then — remember, 
we  are  only  hucksters,  you  and  I — I  will  purchase  it  by 
a  dishonorable  action.  I  will  show  you  a  woman's  letters. 
Read  them,  Harry  Heleigh — and  God  pity  you!" 

He  pushed  the  papers  lying  upon  the  table  toward 
Lord  Brudenel.  Afterward  he  turned  away  and  stood 
looking  over  the  ivy-covered  balustrade  into  the  gardens 
below.  All  white  and  green  and  blue  the  vista  was,  and 
of  a  monastic  tranquillity,  save  for  the  plashing  of  the 
fountain  behind  the  yew-hedge.  From  the  gardens  at 
his  feet  irresolute  gusts  brought  tepid  woodland  odors. 
He  heard  the  rustling  of  papers,  heard  Lord  Brudenel's 
sword  fall  jangling  to  the  ground.  The  Duke  turned. 

"And  for  twenty  years  I  have  been  eating  my  heart  out 
with  longing  for  her,"  the  Earl  said.  "And — and  I 
thought  you  were  my  friend,  Jack." 

"She  was  not  your  wife  then.  Ah,  they  are  dated, 
these  letters.  But  Jack  Bulmer  was  a  penniless  nobody— 
so  they  gave  her  to  you,  an  earl's  heir,  those  sensible  par 
ents  of  hers.  I  never  saw  her  again.  And  her  parents  did 
the  sensible  thing;  but  they  tell  me  it  killed  her,  Harry." 

163 


(gallantry 

"Killed  her?"  Lord  Brudenel  echoed,  stupidly.  Then 
on  a  sudden  it  was  singular  to  see  the  glare  in  his  eyes 
purled  out  like  a  candle.  "I  killed  her,"  he  whispered; 
''why,  I  killed  Alison — I!"  He  began  to  laugh.  "Now 
that  is  amusing,  because  she  was  the  one  thing  in  the 
world  I  ever  loved.  I  remember  that  she  used  to  shudder 
when  I  kissed  her — shudder,  do  you  understand,  Jack  ? 
I  thought  it  was  because  she  was  only  a  white,  timid  girl. 
Now  I  comprehend  'twas  because  every  kiss  was  torment 
to  her,  because  every  time  I  touched  her  'twas  torment. 
So  she  died  very  slowly,  did  Alison — and  always  I  was  at 
hand  with  my  kisses,  my  pet  names,  and  my  paddlings— 
killing  her,  you  observe,  always  urging  her  grave  ward. 
How  she  must  have  loathed  me!"  he  said,  in  a  mild  sort 
of  wonder;  and  then,  without  prelude,  broke  into  a  fit  of 
tearless  sobbing.  He  appeared  senile  now,  the  shrunken 
and  calamitous  shell  of  the  man  he  had  been  within  the 
moment. 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  put  an  arm  about  him.  "Old 
friend,  old  friend  I"  said  he. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me?"  the  Earl  said.  "I  loved 
you,  Jack.  I  worshipped  her.  1  would  never  willingly 
have  seen  you  two  unhappy." 

"Her  parents  would  have  done  as  you  planned  to  do — 
given  their  daughter  to  the  next  richest  suitor.  I  was 
nobody  then.  So  the  wisdom  of  the  aged  slew  us,  Harry 
— slew  Alison  utterly,  and  left  me  with  a  living  body, 
indeed,  but  one  that  cased  a  long-dead  heart.  For  I, 
too,  loved  her,  Harry  Heleigh.  And  when  I  saw  this  new 
Alison — for  Marian  is  her  mother,  face,  heart,  and  soul- 
why,  some  wraith  of  emotion  stirred  in  me,  some  thrill, 
some  not  quite  forgotten  pulse.  It  seemed  Alison  come 
back  from  the  grave.  I  did  not  love  her — ah,  no,  the  old 
fervor  was  gone  out  of  me,  but  presently  I  fell  a-dr earning 

164 


April's    4H? 

over  my  Madeira  on  long  winter  evenings — sedate  and 
tranquil  dreams  of  this  new  Alison  flitting  about  Ingilby, 
making  the  splendid,  desolate  place  into  a  home,  making 
it  heaven.  An  old  man's  fancies,  Harry — fancies  bred  of 
my  loneliness,  for  I  am  very  lonely  nowadays.  But  my 
dreams,  I  find,  were  not  sufficiently  comprehensive;  for 
they  did  not  anticipate  April — and  nature — and  Lord 
Humphrey  Degge.  We  must  yield  to  that  triumvirate, 
we  sensible  old  men.  Nay,  we  are  wise  as  the  world 
goes,  but  we  have  learned,  you  and  I,  that  to  be  sensible 
is  not  the  highest  wisdom.  Marian  is  her  mother  in  soul, 
heart,  and  feature.  Don't  let  the  old  tragedy  be  repeated, 
Harry.  Let  her  have  this  Degge !  Let  Marian  have  her 
single  chance  of  happiness!" 

But  Lord  Brudenel  had  paid  him  very  little  attention. 
"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  when  the  Duke  had  ended.  "  O, 
I  suppose  so.  Jack,  she  was  always  kind  and  patient  and 
gentle,  you  understand,  but  she  used  to  shudder  when  I 
kissed  her,"  he  repeated,  dully — " shudder,  Jack."  He 
sat  staring  at  his  sword  lying  there  on  the  ground,  as 
though  it  fascinated  him. 

"Ah,  old  friend,  old  friend,"  the  Duke  cried,  his  hand 
upon  Lord  Brudenel's  shoulder,  "forgive  me!  It  was  the 
only  way.  We  are  deaf  to  April's  meaning,  we  oldsters — 
we  cannot  understand  that  loving  means  anything  very 
serious  except  by  remembering.  And  most  of  us  have 
forgotten.  You  would  never  have  yielded — ah,  forgive 
me,  Harry!" 

Lord  Brudenel  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  suppose  so,"  he 
said — "O,  yes!  why,  yes,  I  forgive  you,  if  that  is  any 
particular  comfort  to  you.  It  scarcely  seems  of  any  im 
portance,  though.  The  one  thing  which  really  matters  is 
that  I  loved  her  and  I  killed  her.  O,  beyond  doubt,  I 
forgive  you.  But  now  that  you  have  made  my  whole 

165 


past  a  hideous  stench  to  me,  and  proven  the  love  I  was  so 
proud  of — the  one  quite  clean,  quite  unselfish  thing  in 
my  life,  I  thought  it,  Jack — to  have  been  only  my  lust 
vented  on  a  defenceless  woman — why,  just  now,  I  have 
not  time  to  think  of  forgiveness.  Yes,  Marian  may  marry 
Degge  if  she  cares  to.  And  I  am  sorry  I  took  her  mother 
away  from  you.  I  would  not  have  done  it  if  I  had 
known." 

He  started  away  drearily,  but  turned  back  when  he 
had  gone  a  little  distance. 

"  And  the  point  of  it  is,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "that  I 
shall  go  on  living  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
probably  live  for  a  long,  long  time.  My  body  is  so  con 
foundedly  healthy.  How  the  deuce  did  you  have  the 
courage  to  go  on  living?"  he  demanded,  enviously.  "  You 
loved  her  and  you  lost  her.  I'd  have  thought  you  would 
have  killed  yourself  long  ago." 

The  Duke  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Does  it  seem 
worth  while?"  said  he. 

Brudenel  paused  for  a  heart-beat,  looking  down  into 
the  gardens.  Wonderfully  virginal  he  found  that  small 
portion  of  a  world  upon  the  brink  of  renaissance :  a  tessel 
lation  of  clean  colors,  where  the  gravelled  walkways  were 
snow  beneath  the  sun,  and  were  in  shadow  transmuted  to 
dim  violet  tints :  and  for  the  rest,  green  ranging  from  the 
sober  foliage  of  yew  and  box  and  ilex  to  the  pale  glow  of 
young  grass  in  the  full  sunlight;  all  green,  save  where  the 
lake  shone,  a  sapphire  green-girdled.  Spring  triumphed 
with  a  vaunting  pageant.  And  in  the  forest,  in  the  air, 
even  in  the  unplumbed  sea-depths,  there  woke  the  mating 
impulse — irresistible,  borne  as  it  might  seem  on  the  slow- 
rising  tide  of  grass  that  now  rippled  about  the  world. 
Everywhere  they  were  mating ;  everywhere  glances  allured 
and  motith  met  mouth,  while  he  stood  alone,  Alone! 

166 


April's   ! 

his  fancy  clutched  the  word,  yet  with  an  odd  apathy; 
for  was  there  anywhere  a  loneliness  that  mastered  his  ? 
It  might  exist  yonder  where  errant  star-dust  froze  in  the 
remotest  by-corners  of  space ;  but  he  doubted  it. 

"No,"  Lord  Brudenel  conceded,  after  reflection,  "I 
suppose  not.  I  wonder  will  anything  ever  seem  worth 
while  again?" 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  took  his  arm.  "  Scarcely  to  us, 
I  fancy,"  he  said,  negligently.  " However,  the  daws 
must  seek  their  food  elsewhere,  for  a  gentleman  may  not 
wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve.  Empires  crumble,  and 
hearts  break,  and  we  are  blessed  or  damned,  as  Fate  elects ; 
but  through  it  all  we  find  comfort  in  the  reflection  that 
dinner  is  good,  and  sleep,  too,  is  excellent.  As  for  the 
future — eh,  well,  if  it  mean  little  to  us,  it  means  a  deal  to 
Alison's  daughter.  Let  us  go  to  them,  Harry." 


Jltt  ilf*  S>*r0n&  April 

As  Played  at  Bellegarde,  in  the  Latter  April  of  1750 

"  This  passion  is  in  honest  minds  the  strongest  incentive 
that  can  move  the  soul  of  man  to  laudable  accomplishments. 
Is  a  man  just  ?  Let  him  jail  in  love  and  grow  generous.  It 
immediately  makes  the  good  which  is  in  him  shine  forth  in 
new  excellencies,  and  the  ill  vanish  away  without  the  pain 
of  contrition,  but  with  a  sudden  amendment  of  heart" 


Dramatic 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

Due  DE  PUYSANGE,  a  true  Frenchman,  a  pert,  railing  fribble, 

but  at  bottom  a  man  of  parts. 
MARQUIS  DE  SOYECOURT,  a  brisk,  conceited  rake,  and  distant 

cousin  to  de  Puysange. 
CAZAIO,  captain  of  brigands. 
DOM  MICHEL  FREGOSE,  a  lewd,  rascally  friar. 
GUITON,  steward  to  de  Puysange. 
PAWSEY,  Ormskirk's  man. 
ACHON,  a  knave. 

DUCHESSE    DE    PUYSANGE. 

CLAIRE,  sister  to  de  Puysange,  a  woman  of  beauty  and  reso 
lution,  of  a  literal  humor. 

ATTENDANTS,  BRIGANDS,  and  DRAGOONS;   and,  in  the  Proem, 
LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE  and  LADY  MARIAN  HELEIGH. 

SCENE 

First  at  Dover,  thence  shifting  to   Bellegarde-en-Poictesme 
and  the  adjacent  country. 


Ktt  fly?  g>£r0tt&  April 

PROEM:— More  Property  an  Apologue,  and  Treats  of  the  Fallibility 

of  Soap 

iHE  Duke  of  Ormskirk  left  Halvergate 
that  afternoon,  but  not  until  participa 
tion  in  two  dialogues,  which  I  append. 

Said   the   Duke    to    Lord    Humphrey 
Degge: 

"  You  have  been  favored,  sir,  vastly  be 
yond  your  deserts.  I  acquiesce,  since  Fate  is  proverbi 
ally  a  lady,  and  to  dissent  were  in  consequence  ungallant. 
Shortly  I  shall  find  you  more  employment,  at  Dover, 
whither  I  am  now  going  to  gull  my  old  opponent  and 
dear  friend,  Gaston  de  Puysange,  in  the  matter  of  this 
new  compact  between  France  and  England.  I  shall  look 
for  you  at  Dover,  then,  in  three  days'  time." 
"And  in  vain,  my  Lord  Duke,"  said  the  other. 
Now  Ormskirk  raised  one  eyebrow,  after  a  fashion  that 
he  had. 

"Because  I  love  Marian,"  said  Lord  Humphrey,  with 
an  odd  simplicity,  "and  because  I  mean  to  be  less  un 
worthy  of  Marian  than  I  have  been  heretofore.  So  that 
I  can  no  longer  be  your  spy.  Besides,  in  nature  I  lack 
aptitude  for  the  trade.  Eh,  my  Lord  Duke,  have  you 
already  forgotten  how  I  bungled  the  affair  of  Captain 
Audaine  and  his  associates?" 

171 


"But  that  was  your  first  attempt,"  the  Duke  dulcetly 
submitted;  yet  his  eyes  were  alert.  "And  as  I  find — at 
alas!  the  cost  of  decrepitude — the  one  thing  life  teaches 
us  is  that  all  truisms  are  true.  'Practice  makes  perfect' 
is  one  of  them.  And  faith,  when  you  come  to  my  age, 
Lord  Humphrey,  you  will  not  grumble  at  having  to  soil 
your  hands  occasionally  in  the  cause  of  common-sense." 

But  the  younger  man  shook  his  head.  "A  week  ago 
you  would  have  found  me  amenable  enough  to  reason, 
since  I  was  then  a  sensible  person,  and  to  be  of  service 
to  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  was  very  sensible — just  as  to 
marry  Miss  Allonby,  the  young  and  beautiful  heiress, 
was  then  the  course  pre-eminently  sensible.  All  the 
while  I  loved  Marian,  you  understand.  But  I  clung  to 
common-sense.  Desperately  I  clung  to  common-sense. 
And  yet —  He  flung  out  his  hands. 

"Yes,  there  is  by  ordinary  some  plaguy  yet"  the 
Duke  interpolated. 

"There  is,"  cried  Lord  Humphrey  Degge,  "the  swift 
and  heart-grappling  recollection  of  the  woman  you  gave 
up  in  the  cause  of  common-sense — and  roused,  it  may 
be,  by  the  tiniest  triviality; — as,  some  melody  she  liked, 
or  some  shade  o'  color  she  was  wont  to  wear,  or  some  trick 
of  speech,  say,  to  which  she  was  addicted.  My  Lord 
Duke,  that  memory  wakes  on  a  sudden  and  clutches  you 
by  the  throat,  and,  in  sober  earnest,  it  chokes  you.  And 
one  swears  that  common-sense — 

"One  swears  that  common-sense  may  go  to  the  devil," 
said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  "whence  I  don't  say  it 
didn't  emanate!  And  one  swears  that,  after  all,  there 
is  excellent  stuff  in  you!  Your  idiotic  conduct,  sir, 
makes  me  far  happier  than  you  know!" 

After  some  ten  paces  he  turned  with  a  smile.  "In  the 
matter  of  soiling  one's  hands —  Personally  I  prefer  them 

172 


J(n    tl?e    §>?r0tti)i    April 


clean,  sir,  and  particularly  in  the  case  of  Marian's  hus 
band.  Had  it  been  I,  he  must  have  stuck  to  prosaic 
soap;  with  you  in  the  role  there  is  a  difference.  Faith, 
Lord  Humphrey,  there  is  a  decided  difference,  and  if  you 
be  other  than  a  monster  of  depravity  you  will  henceforth, 
I  think,  preserve  your  hands  immaculate." 

To  Marian  the  Duke  said  a  vast  number  of  things, 
prompted  by  a  complaisant  thrill  over  the  fact  that  in 
view  of  the  circumstances  his  magnanimity  must  to  the 
unprejudiced  appear  profuse  and  his  behavior  tolerably 
heroic. 

"  These  are  very  absurd  phrases,"  Marian  considered, 
"  since  you  will  never  love  any  one,  I  think  —  however 
much  you  may  admire  the  color  of  her  eyes  —  one-quarter 
so  sincerely  as  you  will  always  love  John  Bulmer.  Or 
perhaps  you,  too,  have  only  to  wait  a  little,  Jack,  till  in 
her  time  and  season  the  elect  woman  shall  come  to  you, 
just  as  she  comes  to  most  men,  —  and  then,  for  once  in 
your  existence,  you  will  be  sincere." 

"I  go,  provisionally,  to  seek  this  paragon  at  Dover," 
said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  and  he  lifted  her  fingers  tow 
ard  his  smiling  lips  ;  "  but  I  shall  bear  in  mind,  my  dear, 
even  in  Dover,  that  sincerity  is  a  devilishly  expensive 
virtue." 


It  was  on  the  thirteenth  day  of  April  that  they  signed 
the  Second  Treaty  of  Dover,  which  not  only  confirmed 
its  predecessor  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  but  in  addition,  with 
the  brevity  of  lightning,  demolished  the  last  Stuarts' 
hope  of  any  further  aid  from  France.  And  the  French 
ambassador  subscribed  it  with  a  chuckle. 


"  For  on  this  occasion,  Jean,"  he  observed,  as  he  pushed 
the  paper  from  him,  "  I  think  that  honors  are  fairly  even. 
You  obtain  peace  at  home,  and  in  India  we  obtain  as 
sistance  for  Dupleix;  good,  the  benefit  is  quite  mutual; 
and  accordingly,  my  friend,  I  must  still  owe  you  one  for 
that  Bavarian  business." 

Ormskirk  was  silent  until  he  had  the  churchwarden 
he  had  just  ignited  aglow.  ''That  was  the  evening  I 
had  you  robbed  and  beaten  by  footpads,  was  it  not? 
Faith,  Gaston,  I  think  you  should  rather  be  obliged  to 
me,  since  it  taught  you  never  to  carry  important  papers 
in  your  pocket  what  time  you  go  about  your  affairs  of 
gallantry." 

"That  beating  with  great  sticks,"  the  Due  de  Puysange 
considered,  "was  the  height  of  unnecessity." 

And  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  shrugged.  "A  mere  touch 
of  verisimilitude,  Gaston;  footpads  invariably  beat  their 
victims.  Besides,  you  had  attempted  to  murder  me  at 
Aix,  you  may  remember." 

De  Puysange  was  horrified.  "My  dear  friend,  when  I 
set  Villaneuve  upon  you  it  was  with  express  orders  only 
to  run  you  through  the  shoulder.  Figure  to  yourself: 
that  abominable  St.  Severin  had  bribed  your  chef  to 
feed  you  powdered  glass  in  a  ragout!  But  I  dissented. 
'Jean  and  I  have  been  the  dearest  enemies  these  ten 
years  past, '  I  said.  *  At  every  Court  in  Europe  we  have 
lied  to  one  another.  If  you  kill  him  I  shall  beyond  doubt 
presently  perish  of  ennui.'  So,  that  France  might  es 
cape  a  blow  so  crushing,  St.  Severin  consented  to  disable 
you." 

"  Believe  me,  I  appreciate  your  intervention,"  Ormskirk 
stated,  but  with  his  usual  sleepy  smile;  for  before  this  he 
had  found  amusement  in  the  naivete  of  his  friend's  self- 
approbation. 

174 


Jn   tlj?   ^^rnnb    April 

"  Not  so !  Rather  you  are  a  monument  of  ingratitude, " 
the  other  complained.  "You  conceive,  Villaneuve  was 
in  price  exorbitant.  I  snap  my  fingers.  '  For  a  comrade 
so  dear,'  I  remark,  'I  gladly  employ  the  most  expensive 
of  assassins.'  Yet  before  the  face  of  such  magnanimity 
you  grumble."  The  Due  de  Puysange  spread  out  his 
shapely  hands.  "I  murder  you!  My  adored  Jean,  I 
had  as  lief  make  love  to  my  wife." 

Ormskirk  struck  his  finger-tips  upon  the  table.  "Faith, 
I  knew  there  was  something  I  intended  to  ask  of  you. 
I  want  you  to  get  me  a  wife,  Gaston." 

"In  fact,"  de  Puysange  observed,  "warfare  being  now 
at  an  end,  it  is  only  natural  that  you  should  resort 
to  matrimony.  I  can  assure  you  it  is  an  admirable 
substitute.  But  who  is  the  lucky  Miss,  my  little  vil 
lain?" 

"Why,  that  is  for  you  to  settle,"  Ormskirk  said.  "I 
had  hoped  you  might  know  of  some  suitable  person." 

"Ma  fai,  my  friend,  if  I  were  arbiter  and  any  wife 
would  suit  you,  I  would  cordially  desire  you  to  take 
mine,  for  when  a  woman  so  incessantly  resembles  an 
angel  in  conduct,  her  husband  inevitably  desires  to  see 
her  one  in  reality." 

"You  misinterpret  me,  Gaston.  This  is  not  a  jest. 
I  had  always  intended  to  marry  as  soon  as  I  could  spare 
the  time,  and  now  that  this  treaty  is  disposed  of  my 
opportunity  has  beyond  doubt  arrived.  I  am  practically 
at  leisure  until  the  autumn.  At  latest,  though,  I  must 
marry  by  August,  in  order  to  get  the  honeymoon  off  my 
hands  before  the  convocation  of  Parliament.  For  there 
will  have  to  be  a  honeymoon,  I  suppose?" 

"  It  is  customary,"  de  Puysange  said.  He  appeared  to 
deliberate  something  entirely  alien  to  his  reply,  however, 
and  now  sat  silent  for  a  matter  of  four  seconds,  his  coun- 

i75 


(gallantry 

tenance  profoundly  grave.  He  was  a  hideous  man,1  with 
black  beetling  eyebrows,  an  enormous  nose,  and  an 
under-lip  excessively  full;  his  face  had  all  the  calculated 
ill-proportion  of  a  gargoyle,  an  ugliness  so  consummate 
and  merry  that  in  ultimate  effect  it  captivated. 

At  last  de  Puysange  began:  "  I  think  I  follow  you.  It 
is  quite  proper  that  you  should  marry.  It  is  quite  proper 
that  a  man  who  has  done  so  much  for  England  should 
leave  descendants  to  perpetuate  his  name  and  with  per 
haps  some  portion  of  his  ability — no,  Jean,  I  do  not 
flatter — serve  the  England  which  is  to  his  heart  so  dear. 
As  a  Frenchman  I  cannot  but  deplore  that  our  next  gen 
eration  will  have  to  face  another  Ormskirk ;  as  your  friend 
who  loves  you  I  say  that  this  marriage  will  appropriately 
round  a  successful  and  honorable  and  intelligent  life. 
Eh,  we  are  only  men,  you  and  I,  and  it  is  advisable  that 
all  men  should  marry,  since  otherwise  they  might  be  so 
happy  in  this  colorful  world  that  getting  to  heaven  would 
not  particularly  tempt  them.  Thus  is  matrimony  a  bul 
wark  of  religion." 

"You  are  growing  scurrilous,"  Ormskirk  complained, 
"whereas  I  am  in  perfect  earnest." 

"I,  too,  speak  to  the  foot  of  the  letter,  Jean,  as  you 
will  presently  ascertain.  I  comprehend  that  you  cannot 
with  agreeability  marry  an  Englishwoman.  You  are  too 
much  of  a  personage.  Possessing,  as  you  are  notoriously 
known  to  do,  your  pick  among  the  women  of  your  degree 
—for  none  of  them  dare  refuse  the  great  Duke  of  Orms 
kirk — any  choice  must  therefore  be  a  too  robustious 
affront  to  all  the  others.  If  you  select  a  Howard,  the 

*For  a  consideration  of  the  vexed  and  delicate  question  whether 
or  no  King  Charles  the  Second  of  England  was  his  grandfather,  the 
reader  is  referred  to  the  third  chapter  of  La  Vrilliere's  De  Piiysange  et  Son 
Temps.  The  resemblance  in  person  to  that  monarch  was  undeniable. 


Jin    tJj?   jg>Fr0tt&  April 


Skirlaws  will  be  offended  ;  if  a  Beaufort,  you  lose  Umfra- 
ville's  support,  —  and  so  on.  Hey,  I  know,  my  dear  Jean; 
your  affair  with  the  Earl  of  Brudenel's  daughter  cost  you 
seven  seats  in  Parliament,  you  may  remember.  How  am 
I  aware  of  this  ?  —  why,  because  I  habitually  have  your 
mail  intercepted.  You  intercept  mine,  do  you  not? 
Naturally;  you  would  be  a  very  gross  and  intolerable 
scion  of  the  pig  if  you  did  otherwise.  Eh  bien,  let  us  get 
on.  You  might,  of  course,  play  King  Cophetua,  but  I 
doubt  if  it  would  amuse  you,  since  Penelophons  are  rare  ; 
it  follows  in  logic  that  your  wife  must  come  from  abroad. 
And  whence?  Without  question,  from  France,  the  land 
of  adorable  women.  The  thing  is  plainly  demonstrated; 
and  in  France,  my  dear,  I  have  to  an  eyelash  the  proper 
person  for  you." 

"Then  we  may  consider  the  affair  as  settled,"  Ormskirk 
replied,  "and  should  you  arrange  to  have  the  marriage 
take  place  upon  the  ist  of  August  —  if  possible,  a  trifle 
earlier  —  I  would  be  trebly  your  debtor." 

De  Puysange  retorted:  "Beyond  doubt  I  can  adjust 
these  matters.  And  yet,  my  dear  Jean,  I  must  submit 
that  it  is  not  quite  the  act  of  a  gentleman  to  plunge  into 
matrimony  without  even  inquiring  as  to  the  dowry  of 
your  futtire  bride." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Ormskirk,  with  a  grimace;  "I  had 
not  thought  of  her  portion.  You  must  remember  my 
attention  is  at  present  pre-empted  by  that  idiotic  Fer 
rers  business.  How  much  am  I  to  marry,  then,  Gaston  ?" 

"I  had  in  mind,"  said  the  other,  "my  sister,  the 
Demoiselle  Claire  de  Puysange  — 

It  was  a  day  of  courtesy  when  the  minor  graces  were 
paramount.  Ormskirk  rose  and  accorded  him  a  saluta 
tion  fitted  to  an  emperor.  "  I  entreat  your  pardon,  sir, 
for  any  gaucherie  of  which  I  may  have  been  guilty,  and 

177 


desire  to  extend  to  you  herewith  my  appreciation  of  the 
honor  you  have  done  me." 

"  It  is  sufficient,  monsieur,"  de  Puysange  replied.  And 
the  two  gravely  bowed  to  one  another. 

Then  the  Frenchman  resumed,  in  conversational  tones: 
"  I  have  but  one  unmarried  sister  —  already  nineteen, 
beautiful  as  an  angel  (in  the  eyes,  at  least,  of  fraternal 
affection),  and  undoubtedly  as  headstrong  as  any  devil 
at  present  stoking  the  eternal  fires  below.  You  can  con 
ceive  that  the  disposal  of  such  a  person  is  a  delicate 
matter.  In  Poictesme  there  is  no  suitable  match,  and 
upon  the  other  hand  I  grievously  apprehend  her  pres 
entation  at  our  Court,  where,  as  Arouet  de  Voltaire  once 
observed  to  me,  the  men  are  lured  into  matrimony  by  the 
memories  of  their  past  sins,  and  the  women  by  the  im 
munity  it  promises  for  future  ones.  In  England,  where 
custom  will  permit  a  woman  to  be  both  handsome  and 
respectable,  I  estimate  she  would  be  admirably  placed. 
Accordingly,  my  dear  Jean,  behold  a  fact  accomplished. 
And  now  let  us  embrace,  my  brother." 

This  was  done.  The  next  day  they  settled  the  matter 
of  dowry,  jointure,  the  widow's  portion,  and  so  on,  and 
de  Puysange  returned  to  render  his  report  at  Marly. 
The  wedding  had  been  fixed  by  the  Frenchman  for  St. 
Anne's  day,  and  by  Ormskirk,  as  an  uncompromising 
churchman,  for  the  26th  of  the  following  July. 


II 

That  evening  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  sat  alone  in  his 
lodgings.  His  Grace  was  very  splendid  in  black-and-gold, 
wearing  his  two  stars  of  the  Garter  and  the  Thistle,  for 
there  was  a  ball  that  night  at  Lady  Sandwich's,  and 

178 


ilj?  ^^r0«&  April 


Royalty  was  to  embellish  it.  In  consequence,  he  meant 
to  show  his  plump  face  there  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour; 
and  the  rooms  would  be  too  hot  (he  peevishly  reflect 
ed)  ,  and  the  light  would  tire  his  eyes,  and  Lavensthrope 
would  button-hole  him  again  about  that  appointment  for 
Lavensthrope  's  son,  and  the  King  would  give  vent  to 
some  especially  fat-witted  jest,  and  he  would  apishly  grin 
and  applaud.  And  afterward  he  would  come  home  with 
a  headache,  and  all  night  long  ghostly  fiddles  would  vex 
him  with  their  thin  incessancy. 

"Accordingly,"  the  Duke  decided,  "I  shall  not  stir  a 
step  until  eleven  o'clock.  The  King,  in  the  ultimate,  is 
only  a  tipsy,  ignorant  old  Dutchman,  and  I  have  half  a 
mind  to  tell  him  so.  Meantime,  he  can  wait." 

He  sat  down  to  consider  this  curious  lassitude,  this 
indefinite  vexation,  which  had  possessed  him. 

"For  I  appear  to  have  taken  a  sudden  dislike  to  the 
universe.  It  is  probably  my  liver. 

"In  any  event  I  have  come  now  to  the  end  of  my 
resources.  For  some  twenty-five  years  it  has  amused  me 
to  make  a  great  man  of  John  Bulmer.  That's  done  now, 
and  like  the  Moorish  fellow  in  the  play,  'my  occupation's 
gone.'  I  am  at  the  very  top  of  the  ladder,  and  I  find  it 
the  dreariest  place  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  left 
to  scheme  for,  and,  besides,  I  am  tired. 

"The  tiniest  nerve  in  my  body,  the  innermost  cell  of 
my  brain,  is  tired  to-night. 

"  I  wonder  if  getting  married  will  divert  me?  I  doubt 
it.  Of  course  I  ought  to  marry,  but  then  it  must  be  rather 
terrible  to  have  a  woman  loitering  around  you  for  the  rest 
of  your  life.  She  will  probably  expect  me  to  talk  to  her  ; 
she  will  probably  come  into  my  rooms  and  sit  there  when 
ever  the  inclination  prompts  her,  —  in  a  sentence,  she  will 
probably  worry  me  to  death.  Eh  well!  —  that  die  is  cast! 

179 


"'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil.' 
And  what's  her  name? — O,  yes,  Claire.  That  is  a  very 
silly  name,  and  I  suppose  she  is  a  vixenish  little  idiot. 
However,  the  alliance  is  a  sensible  one.  De  Puysange 
has  had  it  in  mind  for  some  six  months,  I  think.  Yester 
day  he  knew  from  the  start  that  I  was  leading  up  to  a 
proposal  for  his  sister, — and  yet  there  we  sat,  two  solemn 
fools,  and  played  our  tedious  comedy  to  a  finish.  Eh 
bien  !  as  he  says,  it  is  necessary  to  keep  one's  hand  in. 

'" Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil' — 
Alison  was  not  headstrong." 

He  rose  suddenly  and  approached  an  open  window. 
It  was  a  starless  night,  temperately  cool,  with  no  air 
stirring.  Below  was  a  garden  of  some  sort,  and  a  flat 
roof  which  would  be  that  of  the  stables,  and  beyond, 
abrupt  as  a  painted  scene,  a  black  wall  of  houses  stood 
against  a  steel-colored,  vacant  sky,  reaching  precisely  to 
the  middle  of  the  vista.  Only  a  solitary  poplar,  to  the 
rear  of  the  garden,  qualified  this  sombre  monotony  of 
right  angles.  Ormskirk  saw  the  world  as  an  ugly  me 
chanical  drawing,  fashioned  for  utility,  meticulously  out 
lined  with  a  ruler.  Yet  there  was  a  scent  of  growing 
things  to  nudge  the  senses. 

"No,  Alison  was  different.  And  Alison  has  been  dead 
these  twenty  years.  And  God  help  me!  I  no  longer 
regret  even  Alison. 

"The  real  tragedy  of  life  is  to  learn  that  it  is  not  really 
tragic.  To  learn  that  the  world  is  gross,  that  it  lacks 
nobility,  that  to  considerate  persons  it  must  be  in  effect 
quite  unimportant  —  here  are  commonplaces,  sweepings 
from  the  tub  of  the  immaturest  cynic.  But  to  learn  that 
you  yourself  were  thoughtfully  constructed  in  harmony 
with  the  world  you  were  to  live  in,  that  you  yourself  are 
incapable  of  any  great  passion — eh,  this  is  an  athletic 

1 80 


Jn  tfy?  &?r0tt&  April 

blow  to  human  vanity.  Well!  I  acknowledge  it.  My 
love  for  Alison  Pleydell  was  the  one  sincere  thing  in  my 
life.  And  it  is  dead.  I  don't  think  of  her  once  a  month. 
I  don't  regret  her  except  when  I  am  tipsy  or  bored  or 
listening  to  music,  and  wish  to  fancy  myself  a  picturesque 
sufferer  in  an  unfeeling  world.  Which  is  a  romantic  lie; 
I  am  only  a  man  of  card-board  in  a  card-board  world. 
Certain  faculties  and  tastes  and  mannerisms  I  undoubt 
edly  possess,  but  if  I  have  any  personality  at  all,  I  am 
not  aware  of  it;  I  am  a  mechanism  that  eats  and  sleeps 
and  clumsily  perambulates  a  ball  that  spins  around  a 
larger  ball  that  revolves  about  another,  and  so  on  ad 
infinitum.  Some  day  the  mechanism  will  be  broken. 
Or  it  will  slowly  wear  out,  perhaps.  And  then  it  will  go 
to  the  dust-heap.  And  that  will  be  the  absolute  end  of 
the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk. 

4 'John  Bulmer  did  not  think  so.  It  is  true  that  John 
Bulmer  was  a  magnanimous  fool, —  Upon  the  other  hand, 
John  Bulmer  would  never  have  stared  out  of  an  ugly 
window  at  an  uglier  landscape  and  have  talked  yet  uglier 
nonsense  to  it.  He  would  have  been  off  posthaste  after 
the  young  person  who  is  '  beautiful  as  an  angel  and  head 
strong  as  a  devil.'  And  afterward  he  would  have  been 
very  happy  or  else  very  miserable.  I  begin  to  think  that 
John  Bulmer  was  more  sensible  than  the  great  Duke  of 
Ormskirk.  I  would — I  would  that  he  were  still  alive." 

His  Grace  slapped  one  palm  against  his  thigh  with 
unwonted  vigor.  "Behold,  what  I  am  longing  for!  I 
am  longing  for  John  Bulmer." 

Presently  he  sounded  the  gong  upon  his  desk.  And 
presently  he  said:  "My  adorable  Pawsey,  the  great  Duke 
of  Ormskirk  is  now  going  to  pay  his  respects  to  George 
Guelph,  King  of  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland,  defender 
of  the  faith,  Duke  of  Brunswick  and  Lunenburg,  and 

181 


supreme  head  of  the  Anglican  and  Hibernian  Church. 
And  to-morrow  Mr.  John  Bulmer  will  set  forth  upon  a 
little  journey  into  Poictesme.  You  will  obligingly  pack 
a  valise.  No,  I  shall  not  require  you, — for  John  Bulmer 
was  entirely  capable  of  dressing  and  shaving  himself. 
So  kindly  go  to  the  devil,  Pawsey,  and  stop  staring  at 
me." 

Later  in  the  evening  Pawsey,  a  thought  mellowed  by 
the  ale  of  Dover,  deplored  with  tears  the  instability  of  a 
nation  whose  pilots  were  addicted  to  tippling. 

4 'Drunk!"  said  Pawsey,  ''hand  'im  hin  the  hactual 
presence  hof  'is  Sacred  Majesty!" 


Ill 

Thus  it  came  about  that  five  days  later  there  arrived 
at  Bellegarde  Mr.  John  Bulmer,  poor  kinsman  and  ac 
credited  emissary  of  the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk.  He 
brought  with  him  and  in  due  course  delivered  a  casket 
of  jewels  and  a  letter  from  the  Duke  to  his  betrothed. 
The  diamonds  were  magnificent  and  the  letter  polite. 

He  found  the  chateau  in  charge  of  the  Marquis  de 
Soyecourt,  distant  cousin  to  de  Puysange ;  with  him  were 
the  Duchess,  a  gentle  and  beautiful  lady,  her  two  children, 
and  the  Demoiselle  Claire.  The  Duke  himself  was  still 
at  Marly,  with  most  of  his  people,  but  at  Bellegarde 
momentarily  they  looked  for  his  return.  Meanwhile  de 
Soyecourt,  an  exquisite  and  sociable  and  immoral  young 
gentleman  of  forty-one,  was  lonely  and  would  not  hear 
of  Mr.  Buhner's  leaving  them ;  and  after  a  little  protesta 
tion  the  latter  proved  persuadable. 

"Mr.  Bulmer,"  the  Duke's  letter  of  introduction  in 
formed  the  Marquis,  ' '  is  my  kinsman  and  may  be  regarded 

182 


Jtt  ilj?  J^?r0n&  April 

as  discreet.  The  evanishment  of  his  tiny  patrimony, 
spirited  away  some  years  ago  by  divers  over-friendly 
ladies,  hath  taught  the  man  humility,  and  procured  for 
me  the  privilege  of  supporting  him  ever  since ;  but  I  find 
him  more  valuable  than  his  cost.  He  is  tolerably  honest, 
not  too  often  tipsy,  makes  an  excellent  salad,  and  will 
transmit  a  letter  or  a  necklace  with  fidelity  and  despatch. 
Employ  his  services,  monsieur,  if  you  have  need  of  them ; 
I  place  him  at  your  command." 

In  fine,  they  at  Bellegarde  judged  Mr.  Bulmer  to  rank 
somewhere  between  lackeyship  and  gentility,  and  treated 
him  in  accordance.  It  was  an  age  of  parasitism,  and 
John  Bulmer,  if  a  parasite,  was  the  Phormio  of  a  very 
great  man ;  when  his  patron  expressed  a  desire  he  fulfilled 
it  without  boggling  over  inconvenient  scruples,  perhaps; 
and  there  was  the  worst  that  could  with  equity  be  said 
of  him.  An  impoverished  gentleman  must  live  somehow, 
and,  deuce  take  it!  there  must  be  rather  pretty  pickings 
among  the  broken  meats  of  an  Ormskirk.  To  this  effect 
de  Soyecourt  moralized  one  evening  as  the  two  sat  over 
their  wine. 

John  Bulmer  candidly  assented.  "I  live  as  best  I 
may,"  he  said.  ''In  a  word  'I  am  his  Highness'  dog  at 
Kew — '  But  mark  you,  I  do  not  complete  the  quotation, 


monsieur." 


''You  need  not,"  said  the  Marquis;  "for  each  of  us 
wards  his  own  kennel  somewhere,  whether  it  be  in  a 
king's  court  or  in  a  woman's  heart,  and  it  is  necessary 
that  he  pay  the  rent  of  it  in  such  coin  as  the  owner  may 
demand.  Beggars  cannot  be  choosers,  Mr.  Bulmer."  He 
went  away  moodily,  and  John  Bulmer  poured  out  another 
glass. 

"Were  I  Gaston  you  would  not  kennel  here,  my  friend. 
The  Duchess  is  a  beautiful  woman — for  undoubtedly  peo- 

183 


pie  do  go  about  unchained  who  can  admire  a  blonde,"  he 
meditated,  in  scornful  tolerance  for  such  depravity  of 
taste — ' '  and  always  your  eyes  follow  her.  I  noticed  it  a 
week  ago." 

And  during  this  week  he  had  seen  a  deal  of  Claire  de 
Puysange,  with  results  that  you  will  presently  ascertain. 
It  was  natural  she  should  desire  to  learn  something  of  the 
man  she  was  so  soon  to  marry,  and  of  whose  personality 
she  was  so  ignorant;  she  had  not  even  seen  a  picture  of 
him,  by  example.  Was  he  handsome? 

John  Buhner  considered  him  to  be  quite  otherwise. 
He  may  have  had  his  occult  purposes,  this  poor  cousin, 
but  of  Ormskirk  he  undoubtedly  spoke  with  an  engaging 
candor.  Here  was  no  parasite  cringingly  praising  his 
patron  to  the  skies.  The  Duke's  career  was  touched  on, 
and  its  grimy  passages  no  whit  extenuated:  before  Det- 
tingen  he  had,  it  must  be  confessed,  taken  a  bribe  from 
de  Noailles,  and  in  return  had  seen  to  it  that  the  English 
did  not  follow  up  their  empty  victory ;  and  'twas  well 
known  he  got  his  dukedom  through  the  Countess  of  Yar 
mouth,  to  whom  the  King  could  deny  nothing.  His 
relations  with  this  liberal  lady? — a  shrug  rendered  the 
ensuing  avowal  of  ignorance  tolerably  explicit.  Then, 
too,  Mr.  Bulmer  readily  conceded,  the  Duke's  atrocities 
after  Culloden  were  somewhat  too  notorious  for  denial: 
all  the  prisoners  were  shot  out-of-hand;  seventy- two  of 
them  were  driven  into  an  inn-yard  and  massacred  en 
masse.  Yes,  there  were  women  among  them,  but  not 
over  a  half-dozen  children,  at  most.  She  was  not  to  class 
his  noble  patron  with  Herod,  understand  —  only  a  few 
brats  of  no  particular  importance. 

In  fine,  he  told  her  every  highly  colored  tale  that  envy 
and  malice  and  ignorance  had  been  able  to  concoct  con- 

184 


Jtt   ilj?  £>er0ttl>  April 

cerning  the  great  Duke.  Many  of  them  he  knew  to  be 
false;  nevertheless,  he  had  a  large  mythology  to  choose 
from,  he  picked  his  instances  with  care,  he  narrated  them 
with  gusto  and  discretion  —  and  in  the  end  he  got  his 
reward. 

For  the  girl  rose,  flame-faced,  and  burlesqued  a  courtesy 
in  his  direction.  "Monsieur  Bulmer,  I  make  you  my 
compliments.  You  have  very  fully  explained  what  man 
ner  of  man  is  this  to  whom  my  brother  has  sold  me." 

"And  wherefore  this  sudden  adulation?"  said  John 
Bulmer. 

"Because  in  France  we  have  learned  that  lackeys  are 
always  powerful.  Le  Bel  is  here  omnipotent,  Monsieur 
Bulmer;  but  he  is  lackey  to  a  satyr  only:  and  therefore, 
I  felicitate  you,  monsieur,  who  are  lackey  to  a  fiend." 

John  Bulmer  sat  down  composedly. 

"Lackey!"  she  flung  over  her  shoulder. 

John  Bulmer  began  to  whistle  an  air  then  popular 
across  the  Channel.  But  anon  his  melody  was  stilled. 

"'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil !": 
said  John  Bulmer.  "You  have  an  eye,  Gaston!" 


IV 

That  evening  came  a  letter  from  Gaston  to  de  Soye- 
court,  which  the  latter  read  aloud  at  supper.  Gossip  of 
the  court  it  was  mostly,  garrulous,  and  peppered  with 
deductions  of  a  caustic  and  diverting  sort,  but  contain 
ing  no  word  of  a  return  to  Bellegarde,  as  this  vocal  ren 
dering  delivered  it.  For  in  the  reading  one  paragraph 
was  elided. 

"I  arrive,"  the  Duke  had  written,  "within  three  or  at 
most  four  days  after  this  will  be  received.  You  are  to 

185 


(gallantry 

breathe  not  a  syllable  of  my  coming,  dear  Louis,  for  I 
do  not  come  alone.  Achille  Cazaio  has  intimidated 
Poictesme  long  enough ;  I  consider  it  is  not  desirable  that 
a  peer  of  France  should  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  chicken-thief, 
particularly  when  Fortune  whispers,  as  the  lady  now  does: 

"  Viens  punir  le  coupable; 
Les  oracles,  les  dieux,  tout  nous  est  favorable. 

"  Understand,  in  fine,  that  Madame  de  Pompadour  has 
graciously  obtained  for  me  the  loan  of  the  dragoons  of 
Entrechat  for  an  entire  fortnight,  so  that  I  return  not 
in  submission,  but,  like  Caesar  and  Coriolanus  and  other 
exiled  captains  of  antiquity,  at  the  head  of  a  glorious 
army.  We  will  harry  the  Taunenfels,  we  will  hang  the 
vile  bandit  more  high  than  Haman  of  old,  we  will,  in  a 
word,  enjoy  the  supreme  pleasure  of  the  chase,  but  en 
hanced  by  the  knowledge  we  pursue  a  quarry  far  more 
splendid.  For  homicide  is,  after  all,  the  most  delightful 
recreation  life  affords  us,  since  man  alone  knows  how 
thoroughly  man  deserves  to  be  slaughtered.  A  tiger, 
now,  has  his  deficiencies,  perhaps,  viewed  as  a  room 
mate  ;  yet  a  tiger  is  at  the  very  least  acceptable  to  the  eye, 
pleasantly  suggestive,  say,  of  buttered  toast;  whereas, 
our  fellow-creatures,  my  dear  Louis—  And  in  this  strain 
de  Puysange  continued,  with  intolerably  scandalous  ex 
amples  as  parapets  for  his  argument. 

That  night  de  Soyecourt  reread  this  paragraph.  "  So 
the  Pompadour  has  kindly  tendered  him  the  loan  of 
certain  dragoons?  She  is  very  fond  of  Gaston,  is  la 
petite  Etoiles,  beyond  doubt.  And  accordingly  her 
dragoons  are  to  garrison  Bellegarde  for  a  whole  fortnight. 
Good,  good!"  said  the  Marquis;  "I  think  that  all  goes 
well." 

He  sat  for  a  long  while,  smiling,  preoccupied  with  his 

1 86 


Jn  ilf?  B>?r0tt&  April 


imaginings,  and  far  adrift  in  the  future.  Louis  de  Soye- 
court  was  a  subtle  little  man,  freakish  and  amiable,  and, 
on  a  minute  scale,  handsome.  He  reminded  people  of  a 
dissipated  elf;  his  excesses  were  notorious,  yet  always 
he  preserved  the  face  of  an  ecclesiastic  and  the  eyes  of 
an  aging  seraph;  and  bodily  there  was  as  yet  no  trace 
of  the  corpulence  which  marred  his  latter  life. 

And  to-night  he  slept  soundly.  His  conscience  was, 
as  ever,  that  of  a  child,  vulnerable  to  punishment,  but  to 
punishment  alone. 

V 

Next  day  John  Bulmer  rode  through  the  Forest  of 
Acaire,  and  sang  as  he  went.  Yet  he  disapproved  of  the 
country. 

"For  I  am  of  the  opinion,"  John  Bulmer  meditated, 
"that  France  just  now  is  too  much  like  a  flower-garden 
situate  upon  the  slope  of  a  volcano.  The  eye  is  pleasantly 
titillated,  but  the  ear  catches  eloquent  rumblings.  This 
is  not  a  very  healthy  country,  I  think.  These  shaggy- 
haired,  dumb  peasants  trouble  me.  I  had  thought  France 
a  nation  of  de  Puysanges;  I  find  it  rather  a  nation  of 
beasts  who  are  growing  hungry.  Presently  they  will  be 
gin  to  feed,  and  at  about  the  same  time  this  operatic  coun 
try  will  have  become  an  excellent  place  to  be  leaving." 

However,  it  was  no  affair  of  his,  so  he  put  the  matter 
out  of  mind,  and  as  he  rode  through  the  forest,  carolled 
blithely.  The  diminishing  trees  were  marshalled  on  each 
side  with  an  effect  of  colonnades  ;  everywhere  there  was  a 
sniff  of  the  cathedral,  of  a  cheery  cathedral  all  green  and 
gold  and  full-bodied  browns,  where  the  industrious  motes 
swam,  like  the  fishes  fairies  angle  for,  in  every  long  and 
rigid  shaft  of  sunlight,  —  or  as  though  Time  had  just  been 

187 


(gallantry 

by  with  a  broom,  intent  to  garnish  the  least  nook  of 
Acaire  against  Spring's  occupancy  of  it.  Then  there  were 
tiny  white  butterflies,  frail  as  dream-stuff.  There  were 
anemones ;  and  John  Bulmer  sighed  at  their  insolent  per 
fection.  Theirs  was  a  frank  allure;  in  the  solemn  forest 
they  alone  of  growing  things  were  wanton,  for  they 
coquetted  with  the  wind,  and  their  pink  was  the  pink 
of  flesh. 

He  recollected  that  he  was  corpulent — and  forty-five. 
"  And  yet,  praise  Heaven,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "  something 
stirs  in  this  sleepy  skull  of  mine." 

Sang  John  Bulmer: 

"April  wakes,  and  her  gifts  are  good, 
For  April  ruleth  the  stately  wood 
And  the  wistful  sounds  of  its  solitude, 
Whose  immemorial  murmuring 
Is  the  voice  of  Spring 
And  murmurs  the  burden  of  burgeoning. 

"April  wakes,  and  her  heart  is  high, 
For  the  Bassarids  and  the  Fauns  are  nigh, 
And  comforting  leaves  make  melody 
O'er  woodland  brakes,  whence  the  breezes  bring 
Vext  twittering 
To  swell  the  burden  of  burgeoning. 

"April  wakes,  and  afield,  astray, 
She  calls  to  whom  at  the  end  I  say, 
Heart  o'  my  heart,  I  am  thine  alway, — 
And  I  follow,  follow  her  carolling, 
For  I  hear  her  sing 
Above  the  burden  of  burgeoning. 

"April  wakes; — it  were  good  to  live 
(Yet  April  dieth),  though  April  give 
No  other  gift  for  our  pleasuring 
Than  the  old,  old  burden  of  burgeoning — " 
188 


n  tlf?  j§£t0tti}  April 


He  paused  here.  Not  far  ahead  a  woman's  voice  had 
given  a  sudden  scream,  followed  by  continuous  and  re 
doubling  calls  for  aid. 

"  Now,  if  I  choose,  will  probably  begin  the  first  fytte 
of  John  Bulmer's  adventures,"  he  meditated,  leisurely. 
"The  woman  is  in  trouble.  If  I  go  to  her  assistance  I 
shall  undoubtedly  involve  myself  in  a  most  unattractive 
mess,  and  eventually  be  arrested  by  the  constable  —  if 
they  have  any  constables  in  this  operatic  domain,  the 
which  I  doubt.  I  shall  accordingly  emulate  the  example 
of  the  long-headed  Levite,  and  sensibly  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  Halt!  I  there  recognize  the  voice  of  the 
Duke  of  Ormskirk.  I  came  into  this  country  to  find 
John  Bulmer,  and  John  Bulmer  would  most  certainly 
have  spurred  his  gallant  charger  upon  the  craven  who 
is  just  now  molesting  yonder  female.  In  consequence, 
my  gallant  charger,  we  will  at  once  proceed  to  confound 
the  dastardly  villain,  as  per  romance  and  John  Bulmer." 

He  came  presently  into  an  open  glade,  which  the  keen 
sunlight  lit  without  obstruction.  Obviously  arranged, 
was  his  first  appraisal  of  the  tableau  there  presented.  A 
woman  in  blue  half  -knelt,  half  -lay,  upon  the  young  grass, 
while  a  man  bending  over  fettered  her  hands  behind  her 
back.  A  swarthy  and  exuberantly  bearded  fellow,  at 
tired  in  green-and-russet,  stood  beside  them,  showing 
magnificent  teeth  as  he  grinned.  Yet  farther  off  a  Do 
minican  Friar  sat  upon  a  stone  and  displayed  his  more 
unctuous  amusement.  Three  horses  and  a  mule  diversi 
fied  the  background.  All  in  all,  a  thought  larger  than 
life,  a  shade  too  obviously  posed,  a  sign-painter's  notion 
of  a  heroic  picture,  was  John  Bulmer's  verdict.  From 
his  holster  he  drew  a  pistol. 

The   lesser   rascal    rose    from   the   prostrate   woman. 
"Finished,  my  captain  —  "  he  began.     Against  the  forest 

189 


verdure  he  made  an  excellent  mark.  John  Bulmer  shot 
him  neatly  through  the  head. 

Startled  by  the  detonation,  the  Friar  and  the  man  in 
green -and-russet  wheeled  about  to  find  him  with  his  most 
excellent  bearing  negligently  replacing  the  discharged 
pistol.  The  woman  lay  absolutely  still,  face  downward, 
in  a  clump  of  fern. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  lament  that  your 
sylvan  diversions  should  be  thus  interrupted  by  the  fact 
that  an  elderly  person  like  myself,  quite  old  enougl1  to 
know  better,  has  seen  fit  to  adopt  the  pursuit  of  knight- 
errantry.  You  need  not  trouble  yourselves  about  your 
companion,  for  I  have  blown  out  most  of  the  substance 
nature  intended  him  to  think  with.  One  of  you,  I  regret 
to  observe,  is  rendered  immune  by  the  garb  of  an  order 
which  I  consider  misguided,  indeed,  but  with  which  I 
have  no  quarrel.  With  the  other  I  beg  leave  to  request 
the  honor  of  exchanging  a  few  passes." 

"Sacred  blue!"  remarked  the  bearded  man;  "you  in 
tend,  then,  to  oppose  me!  Fool,  I  am  Achille  Cazaio!" 

"  I  deplore  the  circumstance  that  I  am  not  quite  over 
whelmed  by  the  revelation,"  John  Bulmer  said  as  he 
dismounted,  "and  entreat  you  to  bear  in  mind,  friend 
Achille,  that  in  Poictesme  I  am  a  stranger.  And,  un 
happily,  the  names  of  many  estimable  persons  have  not 
an  international  celebrity."  Thus  speaking,  he  drew  and 
placed  himself  on  guard. 

With  a  shrug  the  Friar  turned  and  reseated  himself 
upon  the  stone.  He  appeared  a  sensible  man.  But 
Cazaio  flashed  out  a  long  sword  and  hurled  himself  upon 
John  Bulmer. 

He  got,  in  consequence,  a  butcherly  thrust  through 
the  shoulder.  "  Friend  Achille,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "  that 
was  tolerably  severe  for  a  first  hit.  Does  it  content  you  ?" 

190 


«  tiff   &*r0nh   April 


The  hairy  man  raged.  "  Eh,  my  God!"  Cazaio  shrieked, 
"do  you  mock  me,  you  misbegotten  one!  Before  you 
can  give  me  such  another  I  shall  have  settled  you  out 
right.  Already  hell  gapes  for  you.  Fool,  I  am  Achille 
Cazaio!" 

"Yes,  you  had  mentioned  that,  I  think,"  said  his 
opponent.  "And,  in  return,  allow  me  to  present  Mr. 
John  Bulmer,  thoroughly  enjoying  himself  for  the  first 
time  in  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Angelo  taught  me  this 
thrust.  Can  you  parry  it,  friend  Achille?"  He  cut  open 
the  other's  forehead. 

"Well  done!"  Cazaio  grunted.  He  attacked  with  re 
newed  fury,  but  now  the  blood  was  streaming  down  his 
face  and  into  his  eyes  in  such  a  manner  that  he  was 
momentarily  compelled  to  carry  his  hand  toward  his 
countenance  in  order  to  wipe  away  the  heavy  trickle. 
Presently  John  Bulmer  lowered  his  point. 

"  Friend  Achille,  it  is  not  reasonable  I  should  continue 
our  engagement  to  its  denouement,  since  by  that  boastful 
parade  of  skill  I  have  inadvertently  turned  you  into  a 
blind  man.  Can  you  not  stanch  your  wound  sufficiently 
to  make  possible  a  renewal  of  our  exercise  on  somewhat 
more  equal  terms?" 

"Not  now,"  the  other  sobbed,  "not  now,  Monsieur 
Bulmaire.  You  have  conquered,  and  the  woman  is  yours. 
Yet  lend  me  my  life  for  a  little  till  I  may  meet  you  more 
equitably.  I  will  not  fail  you  —  I  swear  it  —  I,  Achille 
Cazaio." 

"Why,  God  bless  my  soul!"  said  John  Bulmer,  "do 
you  imagine  that  I  am  forming  a  collection  of  vagrant 
females?  Permit  me,  pray,  to  assist  you  to  your  horse. 
And  if  you  would  so  far  honor  me  as  to  accept  the  tempo 
rary  loan  of  my  handkerchief— 

Solicitously  he  bound  up  his  opponent's  head  and  more 
13  191 


(galianirg 

lately  aided  him  to  mount  one  of  the  grazing  horses. 
Cazaio  was  pleased  to  say: 

"You  are  a  gallant  enemy,  Monsieur  Bulmaire.  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  cutting  your  throat  on  Thursday 
next,  if  it  be  convenient  to  you." 

"  Believe  me,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "  I  am  always  at  your 
disposal.  Let  this  spot,  then,  be  our  rendezvous,  since 
I  am  wofully  ignorant  concerning  your  local  geography. 
And  meantime,  my  friend,  if  I  may  be  so  bold,  I  would 
suggest  a  little  practice  in  parrying.  You  are  of  Bois- 
robert's  school,  I  note,  and  in  attack  undeniably  brilliant 
whereas  your  defence  —  unvarying  defect  of  Boisrobert's 
followers! — is  lamentably  weak." 

"I  perceive  that  monsieur  is  a  connoisseur  in  these 
matters,"  said  Cazaio;  "I  am  the  more  highly  honored. 
Till  Thursday,  then."  And  with  an  inclination  of  his 
bandaged  head — and  a  furtive  glance  toward  the  insen 
sate  woman — he  rode  away  singing. 

Sang  Achille  Cazaio: 

"For,  O,  the  world  is  wide,  dear  lass, 
That  I  must  wander  through ! 
And  many  a  wind  and  tide,  dear  lass, 
Must  flow  'twixt  me  and  you, 
Ere  love  that  may  not  be  denied 
Shall  bring  me  back  to  you, 

Dear  lass — 
Shall  bring  me  back  to  you!" 

Thus  singing,  he  disappeared;  meantime  John  Bulmer 
had  turned  toward  the  woman.  The  Dominican  sat  upon 
the  stone,  placidly  grinning. 

"And  now,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "we  revert  to  the  origin 
of  all  this  tomfoolery, — who,  true  to  every  instinct  of  her 
sex,  has  caused  as  much  trouble  as  lay  within  her  power 

192 


3n  ilj?   ^^r0n&   April 


and  then  composedly  fainted.  A  little  water  from  the 
brook,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  Master  Friar  —  Hey!— 
why,  you  damned  rascal!" 

As  he  bent  above  the  woman  the  Friar  had  viciously 
stabbed  John  Bulmer  between  the  shoulders.  The  dag 
ger  broke  like  glass. 

"O,  the  devil!"  said  the  churchman;  ''what  sort  of  a 
duellist  is  this  who  fights  in  a  shirt  of  Milanese  armor!" 
He  stood  for  a  moment,  silent,  in  sincere  horror.  "  I  lack 
words,"  he  said  —  "O,  vile  coward!  I  lack  words  to  arraign 
this  hideous  revelation!  There  is  a  code  of  honor  that 
obtains  all  over  the  world,  and  any  duellist  who  descends 
to  secret  armor  is,  as  you  are  perfectly  aware,  guilty  of 
supersticery.  He  is  no  fit  associate  for  gentlemen,  he  is 
rather  the  appropriate  companion  of  Korah,  Dathan,  and 
Abiram  in  their  fiery  pit.  Faugh,  you  sneak-  thief  !" 

John  Bulmer  was  a  thought  abashed,  and  showed  it; 
but  anon:  "  Permit  me,"  he  equably  replied,  "to  point 
out  that  I  did  not  come  hither  with  any  belligerent  in 
tent.  My  undershirt,  therefore,  I  was  entitled  to  regard 
as  a  purely  natural  advantage,  —  as  much  so  as  a  greater 
length  of  arm  would  have  been,  which,  you  conceive,  does 
not  obligate  a  gentleman  to  cut  off  his  fingers  before  he 
fights." 

''I  scent  the  casuist,"  said  the  Friar,  shaking  his  head. 
"Frankly,  you  had  hoodwinked  me:  I  was  admiring  you 
as  a  second  Palmerin;  and  all  the  while  you  w^ere  letting 
off  those  gasconades,  adopting  those  heroic  postures,  and 
exhibiting  such  romantic  magnanimity  you  were  actually 
as  safe  from  poor  Cazaio  as  though  you  had  been  in  Crim 
Tartary  rather  than  Acaire!" 

"  But  the  pose  was  magnificent,"  John  Bulmer  pleaded, 
"and  I  have  a  leaning  that  way  when  one  loses  nothing 
by  it.  And,  besides,  I  consider  secret  armor  permissible 


in  a  country  where  even  the  clergy  are  notoriously  ad 
dicted  to  casual  assassination." 

"It  is  human  to  err,"  the  Friar  retorted,  "and  Cazaio 
would  have  given  me  a  thousand  crowns  for  your  head. 
Believe  me,  the  man  is  meditating  some  horrible  mischief 
against  you,  for  otherwise  he  would  not  have  been  so 
damnably  polite." 

"The  information  is  distressing,"  said  John  Bulmer; 
and  added:  "This  Cazaio  appears  to  be  a  personage?" 

"I  retort,"  said  the  Friar,  "that  your  ignorance  is  even 
more  remarkable  than  my  news.  Achille  Cazaio  is  the 
bugbear  of  all  Poictesme.  He  roosts  in  the  Taunenfels 
yonder,  with  some  hundreds  of  brigands  at  his  beck. 
Poictesme  is,  in  effect,  his  pocket-book,  from  which  he 
takes  whatever  he  has  need  of,  and  the  Due  de  Puysange, 
our  nominal  lord,  pays  him  an  annual  tribute  to  respect 
Bellegarde." 

"This  appears  to  be  an  interesting  country,"  quoth 
John  Bulmer;  "where  a  brigand  rules,  and  the  forests 
are  infested  by  homicidal  clergymen  and  harassed  females. 
Which  reminds  me  that  I  have  been  guilty  of  an  act  of 
ungallantry — and  faith!  wrhile  you  and  I  have  been  chat 
ting,  the  lady,  with  a  rare  discretion,  has  peacefully  come 
back  to  her  senses." 

"She  has  regained  nothing  very  valuable,"  said  the 
Friar,  with  a  shrug.  "Alone  in  Acairel"  But  John 
Bulmer  had  assisted  the  woman  to  her  feet,  and  had  given 
a  little  cry  at  sight  of  her  face,  and  presently  stood  quite 
motionless,  holding  both  her  unfettered  hands. 

"You!"  he  said.  And  when  speech  returned  to  him, 
after  a  lengthy  interval,  he  spoke  with  an  odd  irrelevance. 
"Now  I  understand,"  he  said — "now  I  understand  why 
God  created  me." 

And  yet,  though  vaguely,  he  was  puzzled.  For  there 

194 


5n  tlf?  ^^r0nb   April 

had  come  to  him,  unheralded  and  simply,  a  sense  of  some 
thing  infinitely  greater  than  his  mind  could  conceive; 
and  analysis  might  only  pluck  at  it,  impotently,  as  a 
wearied  swimmer  might  pluck  at  the  sides  of  a  well. 
Ormskirk  and  Ormskirk's  powers  dwindled  from  the  zone 
of  serious  consideration,  as  did  the  radiant  world,  and 
even  the  woman  who  stood  before  him;  trifles,  these: 
and  his  contentment  spurned  the  stars  to  know,  though 
cloudily,  that  somehow  this  woman  and  he  were  but  a 
part,  an  infinitesimal  part,  of  a  scheme  which  was  in 
effably  vast  and  perfect. 

She  was  tall,  just  as  tall  as  he;  it  was  a  blunt- witted 
devil  who  whispered  John  Bulmer  in  the  high-tide  of 
rapture  that,  inch  paralleling  inch,  the  woman  is  taller 
than  the  man  and  subtly  renders  him  absurd;  and  that 
in  a  decade  this  woman  would  be  stout.  There  was  no 
meaning  now  in  any  whispering  save  hers.  John  Bulmer 
perceived,  with  a  blurred  thrill,  as  of  memory,  that  the 
girl  was  tall  and  deep-bosomed,  and  that  her  hair  was 
dark,  all  crinkles,  but  (he  somehow  knew)  very  soft  to 
the  touch.  The  full  oval  of  her  face  had  throughout  the 
rich  tint  of  cream,  so  that  he  now  understood  the  blowzi- 
ness  of  pink  cheeks;  but  her  mouth  was  vivid.  It  was 
not  repulsive,  he  estimated.  And  her  eyes,  candid  and 
appraising,  he  found  to  be  the  color  that  blue  is  in  Para 
dise;  it  was  odd  their  lower  lids  should  be  straight  lines 
as  that  when  she  laughed  they  turned  to  right-angled 
triangles ;  and  it  was  odder  still  that  when  you  gazed  into 
them  your  reach  of  vision  should  be  extended  until  you 
saw  without  effort  for  miles  and  miles. 

As  for  her  nose,  it  managed  to  be  reasonably  Roman 
without  overdoing  it.  All  in  all,  decision  was  here,  and 
a  certain  indolence,  and  an  instinct  for  companionship 
which  would  have  mollified  an  ogre,  and  a  statelily  moving 


(gallantry 

mind  that  to  the  very  obtuse  might  appear  dull.  This 
much  John  Bulmer  perceived  and  knew  that  his  percep 
tions  were  correct,  for  the  reason  that  at  a  remote  period, 
before  the  world  was  thought  of,  probably,  he  remem 
bered  her  to  have  been  precisely  such  a  woman. 

She  returned  his  scrutiny  without  any  trace  of  embar 
rassment,  and  whatever  her  thoughts  may  have  been,  she 
gave  them  no  expression.  But  presently  the  girl  glanced 
down  toward  the  dead  man. 

"It  was  you  who  killed  him?"  she  said.     "You!" 

"I  had  that  privilege,"  John  Bulmer  admitted.  "And 
on  Thursday  afternoon,  God  willing,  I  shall  kill  the 
other." 

"You  are  kind,  Monsieur  Bulmer.  And  I  am  not  un 
grateful.  And  for  that  which  happened  yesterday  I  en 
treat  your  pardon." 

"Granted,  mademoiselle,  on  condition  that  you  permit 
me  to  be  your  escort  for  the  remainder  of  your  jaunt. 
Poictesme  appears  a  somewhat  too  romantic  country  for 
unaccompanied  women  to  traverse  in  any  comfort." 

"My  thought  to  a  comma,"  the  Dominican  put  in — 
"unaccompanied  ladies  do  not  ordinarily  drop  from  the 
forest  oaks  like  acorns.  I  said  as  much  to  Cazaio  a  half- 
hour  ago.  Look  you,  we  two  and  Michault — who  formerly 
incited  this  carcass  and,  from  what  I  know  of  him,  is  by 
this  occupying  hell's  hottest  gridiron — were  riding  peace 
fully  toward  Beauseant.  Then  this  lady  pops  out  of  no 
where,  and  Cazaio  promptly  expresses  an  extreme  admira 
tion  for  her  person." 

"The  rest,"  John  Bulmer  said,  "I  can  imagine.  O, 
believe  me,  I  look  forward  to  next  Thursday  I" 

"But  for  you,"  the  girl  said,  "I  would  now  be  the 
prisoner  of  that  devil  upon  the  Taunenfels!  Three  to 
one  you  fought — and  you  conquered!  I  have  misjudged 

196 


Jfn  tlf?  0£r0n&  April 

you,  Monsieur  Bulmer.  I  had  thought  you  only  an  indo 
lent  old  gentleman,  not  very  brave, — because — 

''Because  otherwise  I  would  not  have  been  the  devil's 
lackey?"  said  John  Bulmer.  "Eh,  mademoiselle,  I  have 
been  inspecting  the  world  for  more  years  than  I  care  to 
confess,  and  you  may  take  it  from  me  that  even  those  of 
us  who  are  in  honor  wholly  shipwrecked  will  yet  cling 
desperately  to  some  stray  spar  of  virtue.  Meanwhile,  we 
waste  daylight.  You  were  journeying — ?" 

"To  Manneville,"  Claire  answered.  Suddenly  she  drew 
nearer  to  him  and  laid  one  hand  upon  his  arm.  "You 
are  a  gallant  man,  Monsieur  Bulmer.  Surely  you  under 
stand.  A  week  ago  my  brother  affianced  me  to  the  Duke 
of  Ormskirk.  Ormskirk! — ah,  I  know  he  is  your  kins 
man, — your  patron, — but  you  yourself  could  not  deny  to 
me  that  the  world  reeks  with  his  infamy.  And  my  own 
brother,  monsieur,  had  betrothed  me  to  this  perjurer, 
that  inhuman  devil  who  slaughters  defenceless  prisoners, 
men,  women,  and  children  alike.  Why,  I  had  sooner 
marry  the  first  beggar,  the  foulest  fiend  in  hell!"  the  girl 
wailed,  and  wrung  her  plump  little  hands  in  desperation. 

"Good,  good!"  he  cried,  in  his  soul.  "For  it  appears 
my  eloquence  of  yesterday  was  greater  than  I  knew  of!" 

Claire  resumed  with  a  lapse,  quite  characteristical,  into 
the  matter-of-course:  "But  you  cannot  argue  with  Gas- 
ton — he  merely  shrugs.  So  I  decided  to  go  over  to 
Manneville  and  marry  Gerard  des  Roches.  He  has  wanted 
to  marry  me  for  a  long  while,  but  Gaston  said  he  was 
too  poor.  And  O,  Monsieur  Bulmer,  Gerard  is  so  very, 
very  stupid! — but  he  was  the  only  person  available,  and 
in  any  event,"  she  concluded,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation, 
"he  is  better  than  that  terrible  Ormskirk." 

John  Bulmer  gazed  on  her  considerately.  "'Beautiful 
as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil,"*  was  his  thought 

197 


(gallantrg 

"You  have  an  eye,  Gaston!"  Aloud  he  said:  "Your 
remedy  against  your  brother's  tyranny,  mademoiselle,  is 
quite  masterly,  though  perhaps  a  trifle  Draconic.  Yet 
if  on  his  return  he  find  you  already  married,  he  undoubt 
edly  cannot  hand  you  over  to  this  wicked  Ormskirk. 
Marry,  therefore,  by  all  means, — but  not  with  this  stupid 
Gerard/' 

"Whom,  then?"  she  wondered.     But  she  knew. 

"Fate  has  planned  it,"  he  laughed;  "here  are  you  and 
I,  and  yonder  is  the  clergyman  whom  Madam  Destiny 
has  thoughtfully  thrown  in  our  way." 

"Not  you,"  she  answered,  gravely.  "I  am  too  deeply 
in  your  debt,  Monsieur  Bulmer,  to  think  of  marrying 
you." 

"You  refuse,"  he  said,  in  a  queer  voice,  "because  you 
have  known  for  some  days  past  that  I  loved  you.  Yet 
it  is  precisely  this  fact  which  constitutes  my  claim  to 
become  your  husband.  You  have  need  of  a  man  to  do 
you  this  trivial  service.  I  know  of  at  least  one  person 
whose  happiness  it  would  be  to  die  if  thereby  he  might 
save  you  a  toothache.  This  man  you  cannot  deny — you 
have  not  the  right  to  deny  this  man  his  single  opportunity 
of  serving  you." 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  she  faltered;  and  then  with 
disheartening  hastiness:  "Of  course,  I  like  you  very 
much;  but  I  am  not  in  love  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head  at  her.  "I  would  think  the  worse 
of  your  intellect  if  you  were.  I  adore  you.  Granted :  but 
that  constitutes  no  cutthroat  mortgage.  It  is  merely  a 
state  of  mind  I  have  somehow  blundered  into,  and  with 
my  allegedly  mental  processes  you  have  absolutely  no 
concern.  I  ask  nothing  of  you  save  to  marry  me.  You 
may,  if  you  like,  look  upon  me  as  insane;  personally,  that 
is  the  view  toward  which  I  myself  incline.  However, 

198 


Jn  tlf?  &?r0n&  April 


mine  is  a  domesticated  mania  and  vexes  no  one  save  my 
self  ;  and  even  I  can  at  times  derive  no  little  amusement 
from  its  manifestations.  Eh,  Monsieur  Jourdain  may 
laugh  at  me  for  a  puling  lover!"  cried  John  Bulmer;  "but, 
heavens!  if  only  he  could  see  the  unplumbed  depths  of 
ludicrousness  I  discover  in  my  own  soul!  The  mirth  of 
Atlas  could  not  do  it  justice." 

Claire  meditated  for  a  while,  her  deep  eyes  inscrutable 
and  yet  not  unkindly.  "It  shall  be  as  you  will,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"O  Mother  of  God!"  said  the  Dominican,  in  profound 
disgust;  "I  cannot  marry  two  maniacs."  But  in  view 
of  John  Bulmer  's  sword  and  pistol  he  subsequently  did. 

And  something  embryonic  in  John  Bulmer  came,  with 
the  knave's  benediction,  into  flowerage.  He  saw,  as  upon 
a  sudden,  how  fine  she  was  ;  all  the  gracious  and  friendly 
youth  of  her:  and  he  deliberated,  dizzily,  the  awe  of  her 
spirited  and  alert  eyes  ;  why,  the  woman  was  afraid  !  He 
understood  that  life  is,  by  right,  an  anthem.  Unuttera 
bly  he  understood  the  meaning  of  this  woman,  so  grave 
and  so  upright  and  so  young,  and  of  her  nearness,  more 
than  bodily,  and  of  their  isolation  in  that  sunny  and 
vivid  circle;  and  the  glade  was,  to  him,  an  island  about 
which  past  happenings  lapped  like  a  fretted  sea. 

She  gazed  shyly  at  her  husband.  "  We  will  go  back  to 
Bellegarde,"  Claire  began,  "and  inform  Louis  de  Soye- 
court  that  I  cannot  marry  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  be 
cause  I  have  already  married  you,  Jean  Bulmer  —  " 

"I  would  follow  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "though  hell 
yawned  between  us.  I  employ  the  particular  expression 
as  customary  in  all  these  cases  of  romantic  infatua 
tion." 

"Yet  I,"  the  Friar  observed,  "would,  to  the  contrary, 
advise  removal  from  Poictesme  as  soon  as  may  be  possible. 

199 


(gallantry 

For  I  warn  you  that  if  you  return  to  Bellegarde,  Monsieur 
de  Soyecourt  will  have  you  hanged." 

" Reverend  sir,"  John  Bulmer  replied,  "do  you  actually 
believe  this  consideration  would  be  to  me  of  any  mo 
ment?" 

The  Friar  inspected  his  countenance.  By-and-by  he 
said:  " I  emphatically  do  not.  And  to  think  that  at  the 
beginning  of  our  acquaintanceship  I  took  you  for  a  sen 
sible  person!"  Afterward  he  mounted  his  mule  and  left 
them. 

Then  silently  John  Bulmer  assisted  her  to  the  back  of 
one  of  the  horses,  and  silently  they  turned  eastward  into 
the  Forest  of  Acaire.  The  man's  thoughts  are  not  here 
recorded,  since  Tom  o'  Bedlam  would  have  spurned  them 
as  insane ;  yet  always  his  countenance  was  politely  inter 
ested,  and  always  he  chatted  pleasantly  till  they  had 
ridden  to  Bellegarde.  Then  Claire  led  the  way  toward 
the  western  facade,  where  her  apartments  were,  and 
they  came  to  a  postern-door,  very  narrow  and  with  a 
grating. 

"  Help  me  down,"  the  girl  said.  And  immediately  this 
was  done.  And  thereupon  Claire  remained  quite  still, 
her  cheeks  smouldering  and  her  left  hand  lying  inert  in 
John  Bulmer's  broader  palm. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "and  let  me  go  in  first. 
Some  one  may  be  on  watch.  There  is  perhaps  dan 
ger-" 

"My  dear,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  perfectly  realize  you 
are  about  to  enter  that  postern,  and  close  it  in  my  face, 
and  afterward  hold  some  trivial  discourse  with  me  through 
that  little  wicket.  I  assent,  because  I  love  you  so  pro 
foundly  I  am  capable  just  now  not  merely  of  tearing  the 
world  asunder  like  paper  at  your  command,  but  even  of 
leaving  you  if  you  bid  me  do  so." 

200 


3n  ilf?  ji>?r0nJi  April 


"Your  suspicions,"  said  she,  "are  positively  marital. 
I  am  trying  to  protect  you,  and  you  —  you!  —  are  the  first 
to  accuse  me  of  underhand  dealing.  I  will  prove  to  you 
how  unjust  are  your  notions."  She  entered  the  postern, 
and  slammed  it  behind  her,  and  presently  appeared  at 
the  wicket. 

"The  Friar  was  intelligent,"  said  Claire  de  Puysange, 
"and  beyond  doubt  the  most  sensible  thing  you  can  do  is 
to  get  out  of  Poictesme  as  soon  as  possible.  You  have 
been  serviceable  to  me,  and  for  that  I  thank  you:  but 
the  master  of  Bellegarde  has  the  right  of  the  low,  the 
middle,  and  the  high  justice,  and  if  my  husband  show  his 
face  at  Bellegarde  he  will  infallibly  be  hanged  ;  and  if  you 
claim  me  in  England,  Ormskirk  will  have  you  knifed  in 
some  dark  alleyway,  just  as  he  did  Traquair  and  Captain 
Dungelt.  I  am  sorry,  because  I  like  you,  even  though 
you  are  fat." 

"You  bid  me  leave  you?"  said  John  Bulmer.  He  was 
by  this  comfortably  seated  upon  the  turf. 

"For  your  own  good,"  said  she,  "I  advise  you  to." 
And  she  closed  the  wicket. 

"The  acceptance  of  advice,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "is 
luckily  optional.  I  shall  therefore  go  down  into  the 
village,  purchase  a  lute,  have  supper,  and  be  here  at 
sunrise  to  greet  you  with  an  aubade,  according  to  the 
ancient  custom  of  Poictesme." 

The  wicket  remained  closed. 


VI 

"I  will  go  to  Marly,  inform  Gaston  of  the  entire 
matter,  and  then  my  wife  is  mine.  I  have  tricked  her 
neatly. 

201 


(gaiiantrg 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Gaston  can  give  me 
the  woman's  body  only.  I  will  accordingly  buy  me  a 
lute." 


VII 

Achille  Cazaio  on  the  Taunenfels  did  not  sleep  that 
night. 

The  two  essays1  dealing  with  the  man — for  they  are 
little  more  than  essays — have  scarcely  touched  his  capa 
bilities.  His  exploits  in  and  about  Paris  and  his  Gascon 
doings,  while  important  enough  in  the  outcome,  are  but 
the  gesticulations  of  a  puppet,  and  the  historian's  real 
concern  is  with  the  hands  that  manceuvered  above  him; 
and  whether  or  no  Achille  Cazaio  organized  the  riots  in 
Toulouse  and  Guienne  and  Be"arn  is  a  question  with 
which  at  this  late  day  there  can  be  little  profitable  com 
merce. 

One  recommends  him  rather  to  the  spinners  of  romance ; 
with  his  morality — a  trifle  buccaneerish  on  occasion — 
once  discreetly  palliated,  all  history  affords  no  hero  more 
taking  to  the  fancy.  One  casts  a  hankering  eye  toward 
his  early  servitorship  at  Bellegarde,  his  hopeless  and  life 
long  adoration  of  Claire  de  Puysange,  his  dealings  with 
d'Argenson  and  King  Louis  le  Bien-Aim6,  the  obscure 
and  mischievous  imbroglios  in  Spain,  and  finally  his 
aggrandizement  and  his  flame-lit  death,  as  du  Maillot, 
say,  records  these  happenings:  and  one  finds  therein  the 
outline  of  an  impelling  hero,  and  laments  that  our  traffic 
must  be  with  a  stolid  and  less  livelily  tinted  Bulmer.  And 
with  a  sigh  one  passes  on  toward  the  labor  prearranged. 

1  The  twenty-first  chapter  of  Du  Maillot's  Hommes  Illustres;  and 
the  fifth  of  d'Avranches's  Ancctres  de  la  Revolution.  Lowe  has  an 
excellent  digest  of  these. 

202 


Jn  ilj?  J$?r0nft  April 


To-night  Cazaio's  desires  were  astir,  and  consciousness 
of  his  own  power  was  tempting  him.  He  had  never 
troubled  Poictesme  much  ;  the  Taunenfels  were  accessible 
on  that  side,  and  so  long  as  he  confined  his  depredations 
to  the  German  frontier,  the  Due  de  Puysange  merely 
shrugged  and  cheerfully  rendered  his  annual  tribute;  it 
was  not  a  great  sum,  and  the  Duke  preferred  to  pay  it 
rather  than  forsake  his  international  squabbles  to  quash 
a  purely  parochial  nuisance  like  a  bandit. 

Meanwhile  Cazaio  had  grown  stronger  than  de  Puy 
sange  knew.  It  was  a  time  of  disaffection:  there  were 
even  persons  who  considered  that  before  hanging  a  super 
fluous  peasant  or  two  de  Puysange  ought  to  bore  himself 
with  inquiries  concerning  the  abstract  justice  of  the 
action.  For  everywhere  the  ignorant  lower  classes  were 
starving,  and  in  consequence  growing  dissatisfied  ;  already 
they  were  posting  placards  in  the  Paris  boulevards— 
"  Shave  the  King  for  a  monk,  hang  the  Pompadour,  and 
break  Machault  on  the  wheel"  —  and  already  a  boy  of 
twelve,  one  Joseph  Guillotin,  was  running  about  the  streets 
of  Saintes  yonder.  So  the  commoners  flocked  to  Cazaio 
in  the  Taunenfels  until,  little  by  little,  he  had  gathered 
an  army  about  him. 

And  at  Bellegarde,  de  Soyecourt  had  only  a  handful  of 
men,  Cazaio  meditated  to-night.  And  the  woman  was 
there  —  the  woman  wiiose  eyes  were  blue  and  incurious, 
whose  face  was  always  scornful. 

In  history  they  liken  Achille  Cazaio  to  Simon  de  Mont- 
fort,  and  the  Gracchi,  and  other  graspers  at  fruit  as  yet 
unripe;  or,  if  the  perfervid  word  of  d'Avranches  be  ac 
cepted,  you  may  regard  him  as  "  le  Saint-  Jean  de  la  R$vo- 
lution  glorieuse"  ;  but  you  may  with  greater  safety  regard 
him  as  a  man  of  strong  passions,  any  one  of  which,  for 
the  time  being,  possessed  him  utterly. 

203 


(gallantry 

Now  he  struck  his  palm  upon  the  table. 

"  I  have  never  seen  a  woman  one-half  so  beautiful, 
Dom  Michel.  I  am  in  love  with  her." 

"  In  that  event,"  the  Friar  considered,  "it  is,  of  course, 
unfortunate  she  should  have  a  brand-new  husband.  Hus 
bands  are  thought  much  of  when  they  are  a  novelty." 

"You  bungled  matters,  you  fat,  mouse-hearted  rascal. 
You  could  quite  easily  have  killed  him." 

The  Dominican  spread  out  his  hands,  and  afterward 
reached  for  the  bottle.  "Milanese  armor!"  said  Dom 
Michel  Fregose.1 

"Yet  I  am  master  of  Poictesme,"  Cazaio  thundered. 
"I  have  ten  men  to  de  Soyecourt's  one.  Am  I,  then, 
lightly  to  be  thwarted?" 

"  Undoubtedly  you  could  take  Bellegarde  —  and  the 
woman  with  it — if  you  decided  so  to  do,"  the  Friar  as 
sented.  "  Yet  there  is  that  trifling  matter  of  your  under 
standing  with  de  Puysange, — and,  besides,  de  Puysange 
will  be  here  in  two  days." 

Cazaio  snapped  his  fingers.  "He  will  arrive  after  the 
fair."  He  uncorked  the  ink-bottle  with  an  august  gesture. 

"Write!"  said  Achille  Cazaio. 


VIII 

As  John  Bulmer  leisurely  ascended  from  the  village 
the  birds  were  waking.  Whether  day  were  at  hand  or 
no  was  a  matter  of  twittering  debate  overhead,  but  in 
the  west  the  stars  were  paling  one  by  one,  like  candles 
puffed  out  by  the  pretentious  little  wind  that  was  bustling 

1  The  same  ecclesiastic  who  more  lately  dubbed  himself,  with  de 
Richelieu's  encouragement,  1'Abbd  de  Trans,  and  was  discreditably 
involved  in  the  forgeries  of  Madame  de  St.  Vincent. 

204 


3fn  tlf?   jg>ertftt&  April 

about  the  turquoise  cupola  of  heaven;  and  eastward 
Bellegarde  showed  stark,  as  though  scissored  from  a 
painting,  against  a  sky  of  gray-and-rose.  Here  was  a 
world  of  faint  ambiguity.  Here  was  the  exquisite  ten 
sion  of  dawn,  curiously  a-chime  with  his  mood,  for  just 
now  he  found  the  universe  too  beautiful  to  put  any  actual 
faith  in  its  existence.  He  had  strayed  into  Faery  some 
how — into  Atlantis,  or  Avalon,  or  "a  wood  near  Athens" 
— a  land  of  opalescence  and  vapor  and  delicate  color,  that 
would  vanish,  bubble-like,  at  the  discreet  tap  of  Pawsey 
fetching  in  his  shaving- water ;  and  meantime  his  memory 
snatched  at  each  loveliness,  jealously,  as  a  pug  snatches 
bits  of  sugar. 

Beneath  her  window  he  paused  and  shifted  his  lute 
before  him.  Then  he  began  to  sing,  exultant  in  the 
unreality  of  everything  and  of  himself  in  particular. 

Sang  John  Bulmer. 

"Speed  forth,  my  song,  the  sun's  ambassador, 
Lest  in  the  east  night  prove  the  conqueror, 
The  day  be  slain,  and  darkness  triumph, — for 
The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain. 

"And  now  the  sunlight  and  the  night  contest 
A  doubtful  battle,  and  day  bides  at  best 
Doubtful,  until  she  waken.     Tis  attest 
The  sun  is  single. 

"  But  her  eyes  are  twain, — 
And  should  the  light  of  all  the  world  delay, 
And  darkness  prove  victorious  ?     Is  it  day 
Now  that  the  sun  alone  is  risen  ? 

"Nay, 

The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain, — 
Twain  firmaments  that  mock  with  heavenlier  hue 
The  heavens'  less  lordly  and  less  gracious  blue, 
And  lit  with  sunlier  sunlight  through  and  through. 
205 


(Sallautrg 

"The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain, 
And  of  fair  things  this  side  of  Paradise 
Fairest,  of  goodly  things  most  goodly." 

He  paused  here  and  smote  a  resonant  and  louder  chord. 
His  voice,  too,  ascended  in  dulcet  supplication. 

"Rise, 

And  succor  the  benighted  world  that  cries, 
The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain!" 

"  Eh — ?  So  it  is  you,  is  it?"  Claire  was  peeping  dis 
dainfully  from  the  window.  Her  throat  was  bare  —  a 
superfluous  miracle  among  so  many — and  her  dusky  hair 
was  a  shade  dishevelled,  and  in  her  meditative  eyes  he 
caught  the  flicker  of  her  tardiest  dream  just  as  it  van 
ished. 

"It  is  I,"  John  Bulmer  confessed — "come  to  awaken 
you  according  to  the  ancient  custom  of  Poictesme." 

"I  had  much  rather  have  had  my  sleep  out,"  said  she, 
resentfully.  "In  perfect  frankness,  I  find  you  and  your 
ancient  customs  a  nuisance." 

"You  lack  romance,  my  wife." 

"O — ?"  She  was  a  person  of  many  cryptic  exclama 
tions,  this  bride  of  his.  Presently  she  said:  "Indeed, 
Monsieur  Bulmer,  I  entreat  you  to  leave  Poictesme.  I 
have  informed  Louis  of  everything,  and  he  is  rather 
furious." 

John  Bulmer  said:  "Do  you  comprehend  why  I  have 
not  already  played  the  emigrant?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  after  a  little  pause. 

"And  for  the  same  reason  I  can  never  leave  you  so 
long  as  this  gross  body  be  at  my  disposal.  You  are  about 
to  tell  me  that  if  I  remain  here  I  shall  probably  be  hanged 
on  account  of  what  happened  yesterday.  There  are 

206 


Aprtl 

reasons  why  I  do  not  consider  this  likely,  but  if  I  knew 
it  to  be  true — if  I  had  but  one  hour's  start  of  Jack  Ketch 
— I  swear  to  you  I  would  not  budge." 

"  I  am  heartily  sorry,"  she  replied,  "  since  if  I  had  known 
you  really  cared  for  me — so  much — I  would  never  have 
married  you.  O,  it  is  impossible!"  the  girl  laughed,  with 
a  trace  of  hysteria.  "  You  had  not  laid  eyes  on  me  until 
a  week  ago  yesterday!" 

''My  dear,"  John  Bulmer  answered,  "I  am  perhaps 
inadequately  acquainted  with  the  etiquette  of  such  mat 
ters,  but  I  make  bold  to  question  if  love  is  exclusively 
regulated  by  clock- ticks.  Observe!"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  fury;  "there  is  a  mocking  demon  in  me  who  twists 
my  tongue  into  a  jest  even  when  I  am  most  serious.  I 
love  you;  and  I  dare  not  tell  you  so  without  a  grin. 
Then  when  you  laugh  at  me  I,  too,  can  laugh,  and  the 
whole  transaction  be  regarded  as  a  parody.  O,  I  am  in 
deed  a  coward!" 

''Not  so!"  she  earnestly  replied.  "You  proved  that 
yesterday." 

"Yesterday  I  shot  an  unsuspecting  man,  and  afterward 
fenced  with  another — in  a  shirt  of  Milanese  armor!  Yes, 
I  was  astoundingly  heroic  yesterday,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  all  the  while  I  knew  myself  to  be  as  safe  as  though 
I  were  snug  at  home  snoring  under  an  eider-down  quilt. 
Yet,  to  do  me  justice,  I  am  a  shade  less  afraid  of  physical 
danger  than  of  ridicule." 

She  gave  him  a  womanly  answer.  "You  are  not  ridic 
ulous,  and  to  wear  armor  was  very  sensible  of  you." 

"To  the  contrary,  I  am  extremely  ridiculous.  For 
observe:  I  am  an  elderly  man,  quite  old  enough  to  be 
your  father;  I  am  fat — no,  that  is  kind  of  you,  but  I  am 
not  well-built,  I  am  merely  and  unpardonably  fat;  and 
I  believe  I  am  not  possessed  of  any  fatal  beauty  of  feature 
14  207 


{gallantry 

such  as  would  by  ordinary  impel  young  women  to  pursue 
me  with  unsolicited  affection:  and  being  all  this,  I  pre 
sume  to  love  you.  To  me,  at  least,  that  appears  ridicu 
lous." 

"Ah,  do  not  laugh!"  she  said.  "Do  not  laugh,  Mon 
sieur  Bulmer!" 

But  John  Bulmer  persisted  in  that  curious  laughter 
which  somehow  was  peculiarly  unjovial.  "  Because,"  he 
presently  stated,  "the  whole  affair  is  so  very,  very  di 
verting." 

"Believe  me,"  Claire  began,  "I  am  sorry  that  you 
care — so  much.  I — do  not  understand.  I  am  sorry — I 
am  not,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  new  tone,  and  you  saw  her 
honest  face  transfigured;  "I  am  glad!  Do  you  compre 
hend? — I  am  glad!"  And  then  she  swiftly  closed  the 
window. 

John  Bulmer  observed,  "I  am  perhaps  subject  to  hallu 
cinations,  for  otherwise  the  fact  had  been  previously  noted 
by  geographers  that  Heaven  is  immediately  adjacent  to 
Poictesme." 

IX 

Presently  the  old  flippancy  came  back  to  him,  since 
an  ancient  custom  is  not  lightly  broken,  and  John  Bulmer 
smiled  sleepily  and  shook  his  head.  "Here  am  I  on  my 
honeymoon,  with  my  wife  locked  up  in  the  chateau  and 
me  locked  out  of  it.  My  position  savors  too  much  of 
George  Dandin's  to  be  quite  acceptable.  Let  us,  then, 
set  about  rectifying  matters." 

He  came  to  the  great  gate  of  the  castle  later  and  found 
two  sentries  there.  He  thought  this  odd,  but  they  recog 
nized  him  as  de  Soyecourt's  guest,  and  after  a  whispered 
consultation  admitted  him.  In  the  courtyard  a  lackey 

208 


Jtt  ifj?   S>?r0n&  April 

took  charge  of  Monsieur  Bulmer,  and  he  was  conducted 
into  the  presence  of  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt.  "What 
the  devil!"  he  thought,  "is  Bellegarde  in  a  state  of  siege?" 

The  little  Marquis  sat  beside  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange 
to  the  rear  of  a  long  table  with  a  crimson  cover.  Their 
attitudes  smacked  vaguely  of  the  judicial,  and  before 
them  stood  a  ragged,  dissolute  fellow,  guarded  by  four 
attendants,  whom  the  Marquis  was  languidly  considering. 

"My  dear  man,"  de  Soyecourt  was  saying  as  John 
Bulmer  came  into  the  room,  "when  you  brought  this 
extraordinary  epistle  to  Bellegarde,  you  must  have  been 
perfectly  aware  that  thereby  you  were  forfeiting  your  life. 
Accordingly,  I  am  in  nature  compelled  to  deny  your  ab 
surd  claims  to  the  immunity  of  a  herald,  just  as  I  would 
decline  to  receive  a  herald  from  the  cockroaches." 

"That  is  cowardly,"  the  man  said.  "I  come  as  the 
representative  of  an  honorable  enemy  who  desires  to 
warn  you  before  he  strikes." 

"You  come  as  the  representative  of  vermin,"  de  Soye 
court  retorted,  "and  as  such  I  receive  you.  You  will 
therefore,  permit  me  to  wish  you  a  pleasant  journey  into 
eternity.  Why,  hoik,  madame!  here  is  that  vagabond 
guest  of  ours  returned  to  observation!"  The  Marquis 
rose  and  stepped  forward,  all  abeam.  "Mr.  Bulmer," 
said  he,  with  an  intense  cordiality,  "I  can  assure  you 
that  I  was  never  more  delighted  to  see  any  one  in  my 
entire  life." 

"Pardon,  monseigneur,"  one  of  the  attendants  here 
put  in — "but  what  shall  we  do  with  this  Achon?" 

The  Marquis  slightly  turned  his  head,  his  hand  still 
grasping  John  Bulmer 's.  "Why,  hang  him,  of  course," 
he  said.  "Did  I  forget  to  tell  you?  But  yes,  take  him 
out  and  hang  him  at  once."  The  four  men  conducted 
their  prisoner  from  the  room. 

209 


"You  find  us  in  the  act  of  dispensing  justice,"  the 
Marquis  continued,  "yet  at  Bellegarde  we  temper  it  with 
mercy,  so  that  I  shall  ask  no  indiscreet  questions  concern 
ing  your  absence  of  last  night." 

"But  I,  monsieur,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I,  too,  have 
come  to  demand  justice." 

"Tete-bleu,  Mr.  Bulmer!  and  what  can  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  doing  for  you  in  that  respect?" 

"You  can  restore  to  me  my  wife,"  John  Bulmer  said. 

And  now  de  Soyecourt  cast  a  smile  toward  the  Duchess, 
though  the  latter  was  plainly  troubled.  "Would  you  not 
have  known  this  was  an  Englishman,"  he  queried,  "by 
the  avowed  desire  for  the  society  of  his  own  wife  ?  They 
are  a  mad  race.  And  indeed,  Mr.  Bulmer,  I  would  very 
gladly  restore  to  you  this  hitherto  unheard-of  spouse  if 
only  I  were  blest  with  her  acquaintance.  As  it  is —  He 
waved  his  hand. 

" I  married  her  but  yesterday,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "and 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  is  now  within  Belle- 
garde." 

He  saw  the  eyes  of  de  Soyecourt  slowly  narrow. 
"Jacques,"  said  the  Marquis,  "fetch  me  the  pistol  within 
that  cabinet."  He  resumed  his  seat  to  the  rear  of  the 
table,  the  weapon  lying  before  him.  "You  may  go  now, 
Jacques;  this  gentleman  and  I  are  about  to  hold  a  little 
private  conversation."  Then,  when  the  door  had  closed 
upon  the  lackey,  de  Soyecourt  said:  "Pray  draw  up  a 
chair  within  just  ten  feet  of  this  table,  monsieur,  and 
oblige  me  with  your  wife's  maiden  name." 

"She  was  formerly  known,"  John  Bulmer  answered, 
"as  Mademoiselle  Claire  de  Puysange." 

The  Duchess  spoke  for  the  first  time.  "0,  the  poor 
man!  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  he  is  evidently  insane." 

"I  do  not  know  about  that,"  the  Marquis  said,  fret- 

210 


Jin  l\\*  ^^rottln  April 


fully,  ''but  in  any  event  I  wish  that  people  would  not 
rush  into  Bellegarde  and  absolutely  compel  me  to  kill 
them.  First  there  was  this  Achon,  and  now  you,  Mr. 
Bulmer,  come  to  annoy  me.  Listen,  monsieur,"  he  went 
on,  presently:  "last  evening  Mademoiselle  de  Puysange 
triumphantly  announced  both  to  the  Duchess  and  to  me 
that  her  impending  match  with  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk 
must  necessarily  be  broken  off,  as  she  was  already  mar 
ried.  She  had,  she  stated,  casually  encountered  you  in 
the  forest,  where,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  you  two  had 
espoused  one  another;  and  was  quite  unable  to  inform 
us  what  had  become  of  you  after  the  ceremony.  You 
can  conceive  that,  as  a  sensible  man,  I  did  not  credit  a 
word  of  her  story.  But  now,  as  I  understand  it,  you 
corroborate  this  moonstruck  narrative?" 

John  Bulmer  bowed  his  head.  "I  have  that  honor, 
monsieur.  '  ' 

De  Soyecourt  sounded  the  gong  beside  him.  "In  that 
event,  it  is  uncommonly  convenient  to  have  you  in  hand. 
Your  return  to  Bellegarde  I  regard  as  opportune,  even 
though  I  am  compelled  to  attribute  it  to  insanity;  per 
sonally,  I  disapprove  of  this  match  with  Milor  Ormskirk, 
but  as  Gaston  is  bent  upon  it,  you  will  understand  that 
in  reason  my  only  course  is  to  make  Claire  a  widow  as 
soon  as  may  be  possible." 

"It  is  intended,  then,"  John  Bulmer  queried,  "that  I 
am  to  follow  the  late  and  unlamented  Achon?" 

"I  can  but  trust,"  said  the  Marquis,  politely,  "that 
your  course  of  life  has  qualified  you  for  a  superior  flight, 
since  Achon  's  departure,  I  apprehend,  was  not  unakin 
to  a  descent." 

"No!"  the  Duchess  cried,  suddenly;  "Monsieur  de 
Soyecourt,  can  you  not  see  the  man  is  out  of  his  senses  ? 
Let  Claire  be  sent  for.  There  is  some  mistake." 

211 


De  Soyecourt  shrugged.  "You  know  that  I  can  refuse 
you  nothing.  Jacques, ' '  he  called  to  the  appearing  lackey, 
"request  Mademoiselle  de  Puysange  to  honor  us,  if  it  be 
convenient,  with  her  presence.  Nay,  I  pray  you,  do  not 
rise,  Mr.  Bulmer;  I  am  of  a  nervous  disposition,  startled 
by  the  least  movement,  and  my  finger,  as  you  may  note,  is 
immediately  upon  the  trigger." 

So  they  sat  thus,  John  Bulmer  beginning  to  feel  rather 
foolish  as  time  wore  on,  though  actually  it  was  not  a  long 
while  before  Claire  had  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  had 
paused  there  quite  unruffled.  You  saw  a  great  wave  of 
color  flood  her  countenance,  and  then  swiftly  ebb  and 
leave  it  ashen.  John  Bulmer  observed,  with  a  thrill, 
that  she  made  no  sound,  but  simply  waited,  composed 
and  alert,  almost  stolidly,  to  find  out  how  much  de  Soye 
court  knew  before  she  spoke. 

The  little  Marquis  said,  "Claire,  this  gentleman  informs 
us  that  you  married  him  yesterday." 

Tranquilly  she  inspected  her  claimant.  "  I  did  not  see 
Monsieur  Bulmer  at  all  yesterday,  so  far  as  I  remember. 
Why,  surely,  Louis,  you  did  not  take  my  nonsense  of  last 
night  in  earnest?"  she  demanded,  and  gave  a  mellow 
ripple  of  laughter.  "Yes,  you  actually  believed  it;  you 
actually  believed  that  I  walked  into  the  forest  and  mar 
ried  the  first  unpetticoated  person  I  met  there,  and  that 
this  is  he.  As  it  happens  I  did  not;  so  please  let  Mon 
sieur  Bulmer  go  at  once,  and  put  away  that  absurd  pistol 
— at  once,  Louis,  do  you  hear?" 

The  Duchess  shook  her  head.  "She  is  lying,  Monsieur 
de  Soyecourt,  and  undoubtedly  this  is  the  man.  Her 
denial  would  not  be  so  convincing  were  it  not  a  lie." 

" It  is  a  lie,"  John  Bulmer  said,  "and  I  praise  God  for 
the  nobility  which  prompted  it."  He  went  straight  to 
the  girl  and  took  her  hand.  "  You  are  trying  to  save  me 

212 


3tt  ilj?  §>?r0n&  April 

because  you  know  I  must  be  hanged  in  order  you  may 
wed  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk.  Yet  I  warn  you  that  the 
fate  of  Ananias  was  never  a  synonym  for  felicity." 

"Jean  Bulmer!  Jean  Bulmer!"  the  girl  wailed,  and 
her  voice  was  tender ;  "  why  did  you  return  to  Bellegarde, 
Jean  Bulmer?" 

"I  came,"  he  answered,  "for  the  very  absurd  reason 
that  I  cannot  live  without  you." 

They  stood  thus  for  a  while,  both  her  hands  clasped  in 
his.  "I  believe  you,"  she  said  at  last,  "even  though  I 
do  not  understand  at  all,  Jean  Bulmer."  And  then  she 
wheeled  upon  the  Marquis.  "  Yes,  yes !"  Claire  said ;  "  the 
man  is  my  husband.  And  I  will  not  have  him  harmed. 
Do  you  comprehend? — you  shall  not  touch  him,  because 
you  are  not  fit  to  touch  him,  Louis,  and  also  because  I 
do  not  wish  it." 

De  Soyecourt  looked  toward  the  Duchess  for  advice. 
"  It  is  a  nuisance,  but  evidently  she  cannot  marry  Milor 
Ormskirk  so  long  as  Mr.  Bulmer  is  alive.  I  suppose  it 
would  be  better  to  hang  him  out-of-hand  ?" 

"Monsieur  de  Puysange  would  prefer  it,  I  imagine," 
said  the  Duchess;  " nevertheless,  it  appears  a  great  pity." 

"In  nature,"  the  Marquis  assented,  "we  deplore  the 
loss  of  Mr.  Bulmer's  company.  Yet  as  matters  stand— 

"But  they  are  in  love  with  one  another,"  the  Duchess 
pointed  out,  with  a  sorry  little  laugh.  "  Can  you  not  see 
that,  my  friend?" 

"Hein?"  said  the  Marquis;  "why,  then,  it  is  doubly 
important  Mr.  Bulmer  be  locked  up  somewhere  over 
night  and  hanged  the  first  thing  in  the  morning."  He 
reached  for  the  gong,  but  Claire  had  begun  to  speak. 

"  I  am  not  in  love  with  him!  You  do  not  realize  your 
profound  imbecility,  Helene.  I  think  he  is  a  detestable 
man,  because  he  always  looks  at  you  as  if  he  saw  some- 

213 


(gallantry 

thing  extremely  ridiculous,  but  was  too  polite  to  notice  it. 
He  is  invariably  making  me  suspect  I  have  a  smut  on  my 
nose.  But  in  spite  of  that,  I  consider  him  a  very  pleasant 
old  gentleman,  and  I  will  not  have  him  hanged!"  With 
which  ultimatum  she  stamped  her  foot. 

"Yes,  madame,"  said  the  Marquis,  critically;  "after 
all,  she  is  in  love  with  him.  That  is  unfortunate,  is  it 
not,  for  Milor  Ormskirk — and  even  for  Achille  Cazaio," 
he  added,  with  a  listless  shrug. 

"I  fail  to  see,"  a  dignified  young  lady  stated,  "what 
Cazaio,  at  least,  has  to  do  with  your  galimatias." 

"  Simply  that  I  received  this  morning  a  letter  demand 
ing  you  be  surrendered  to  Cazaio,"  de  Soyecourt  answered 
as  he  sounded  the  gong.  "  Otherwise,  our  amiable  friend 
of  the  Taunenfels  announces  he  will  attack  Bellegarde  at 
his  convenience.  I,  of  course,  hanged  his  herald  and 
despatched  messengers  to  Gaston,  whom  I  look  for  to 
morrow.  If  he  indeed  arrive  to-morrow  morning,  Mr. 
Bulmer,  I  shall  relinquish  you  to  him;  in  other  circum 
stances  will  be  laid  upon  me  the  deplorable  necessity  of 
summoning  a  Protestant  minister  from  Manneville,  and 
afterward  of  hanging  you — suppose  we  say  at  noon?" 

"The  hour  suits  me,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "as  well  as 
another.  But  no  better.  And  I  warn  you  it  will  not 
suit  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  either,  whose  relative — whose 
very  near  relative — "  He  posed  for  the  astounding  rev 
elation. 

But  little  de  Soyecourt  had  drawn  closer  to  him.  "  Mr. 
Bulmer,"  said  he,  with  a  certain  intensity,  "I  have  some 
how  omitted  to  mention  that  two  years  ago  I  was  at  Aix- 
la-Chapelle,  when  the  treaty  was  in  progress,  and  there 
saw  your  great  kinsman.  I  cut  no  particular  figure  at 
the  convocation,  and  it  is  unlikely  he  recalls  my  features ; 
but  I  remember  his  quite  clearly." 

214 


Jn  ilj?  ^Frnnb  April 


"  Indeed  ?"  said  John  Bulmer,  courteously  ;  "  it  appears, 
then,  that  monsieur  is  a  physiognomist?" 

"You  flatter  me,"  the  Marquis  returned;  "my  skill 
enabled  me  to  deduce  the  veriest  truisms  only  —  such  as 
that  the  man  who  for  fifteen  years  had  beaten  France, 
had  hoodwinked  France,  would  in  France  be  not  over- 
safe  could  we  conceive  him  fool  enough  to  hazard  a  trip 
into  this  country." 

"Especially  alone?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"  Especially,"  the  Marquis  assented,  "if  he  came  alone. 
But,  ma  foi!  I  am  discourteous.  You  were  about  to 
say?" 

"That  a  comic  subject  declines  to  be  set  forth  in  tragic 
verse,"  John  Bulmer  answered,  "and  afterward  to  in 
quire  the  way  to  my  dungeon." 


But  he  escaped  a  dungeon  after  all,  for  at  parting  de 
Soyecourt  had  graciously  offered  to  accept  Mr.  Bulmer 's 
parole,  which  he  gave  willingly  enough,  and  thereby 
obtained  the  liberty  of  a  tiny  enclosed  garden,  whence 
a  stairway  led  to  his  new  apartment  on  the  second 
floor  of  what  had  been  known  as  the  Constable's  Tow 
er,  since  du  Guesclin  held  it  for  six  weeks  against 
Sir  Robert  Knollys,  when  Bellegarde  was  only  a  for 
tress. 

The  garden,  gravel-pathed,  was  a  trim  place,  all  green 
and  white,  containing  four  poplars,  and  in  the  centre  a 
fountain,  where  three  Nereids  contended  with  a  brawny 
Triton  for  the  possession  of  a  turtle  whose  nostrils  spurted 
water.  A  circle  of  attendant  turtles,  half -submerged, 
shot  inferior  jets  from  their  gaping  mouths.  It  was  an 

2I5 


odd,  and  not  unhandsome  piece,1  and  John  Bulmer  in 
spected  it  with  appreciation,  and  latterly  the  garden, 
and  having  found  all  things  satisfactory,  sat  down  and 
chuckled  sleepily  and  waited. 

"  De  Soyecourt  has  been  aware  of  my  identity  through 
out  the  entire  week!  Faith,  then,  I  am  a  greater  fool 
than  even  I  suspected,  since  this  fop  of  the  boulevards 
has  been  able  to  trick  me  so  long.  He  has  some  card  up 
his  sleeve,  too,  has  our  good  Marquis — eh,  well!  Gaston 
comes  to-morrow,  and  thenceforward  all  is  plain  sailing. 
Meantime  I  conjecture  that  the  poor  captive  will  present 
ly  have  visitors." 

He  had  dinner  first,  though,  and  at  this  meal  gave  an 
excellent  account  of  himself.  Shortly  afterward,  as  he 
sat  over  his  coffee,  little  de  Soyecourt  unlocked  the  high 
and  narrow  gate  wrhich  constituted  the  one  entrance  to 
the  garden  and  sauntered  forward,  dapper  and  smiling. 

"I  entreat  your  pardon,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  de  Soye 
court  began,  "that  I  have  not  visited  you  sooner.  But 
in  unsettled  times,  you  comprehend,  the  master  of  a 
beleaguered  fortress  is  kept  busy.  Cazaio,  I  now  learn 
means  to  attack  to-morrow,  and  I  have  been  fortifying 
against  him.  However,  I  attach  no  particular  impor 
tance  to  the  man's  threats,  as  I  have  despatched  three 
couriers  to  Gaston,  one  of  whom  must  in  reason  get  to 
him;  and  in  that  event  he  will  arrive  early  in  the  after 
noon,  and  accompanied  by  the  dragoons  of  Entrechat. 
And  subsequently — eh  bien!  if  Cazaio  has  stirred  up  a 
hornet's-nest  he  has  only  himself  to  thank  for  it."  He 
snapped  his  fingers  and  hummed  a  merry  air,  being  to  all 
appearances  in  excellent  spirits. 

1  Designed  by  Simon  Guillain.  This  fountain  is  still  to  be  seen  at 
Bellegarde,  though  the  exuberanc}^  of  Revolutionary  patriotism  has 
bereft  the  Triton  of  his  head  and  of  the  lifted  arm. 

216 


3n  tlje  ^^rnttb  April 

"That  is  well,"  said  John  Bulmer — "for,  believe  me, 
I  shall  be  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  Gaston  once  more." 

"Decidedly,"  said  the  Marquis,  sniffing,  "they  give  my 
prisoners  much  better  coffee  than  they  deign  to  afford  me. 
I  shall  make  bold  to  ask  you  for  a  cup  of  it,  what  time  we 
converse  sensibly."  He  sat  down  opposite  John  Bulmer. 
"  O,  about  Gaston,"  said  the  Marquis,  as  he  added  the 
sugar — "it  is  deplorable  that  you  will  not  see  Gaston 
again,  at  least,  not  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours." 

"I  am  the  more  grieved,"  said  John  Bulmer,  gravely, 
"for  I  love  the  man." 

"It  is  necessary,  you  conceive,  that  I  hang  you,  at 
latest,  before  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow,  since  Gaston  is  a 
little  too  fond  of  you  to  fall  in  with  my  plans.  His  pre 
mature  arrival  would  in  effect  admit  the  bull  of  equity 
into  the  china-shop  of  my  intentions.  And  day-dreams 
are  fragile  stuff,  Monsieur  d'Ormskirk!  Indeed,  I  am 
giving  you  this  so  brief  reprieve  only  because  I  am  un 
willing  to  have  upon  my  conscience  the  reproach  of  hang 
ing  without  due  preparation  a  man  whom  of  all  politicians 
in  the  universe  I  most  unfeignedly  like  and  respect.  The 
Protestant  minister  has  been  sent  for,  and  will,  I  sincerely 
trust,  be  here  at  dawn.  Otherwise — really,  I  am  deso 
lated,  Monsieur  le  Due,  but  you  surely  comprehend  that 
I  cannot  wait  upon  his  leisure." 

John  Bulmer  cracked  a  filbert.  "So  I  die  to-morrow? 
I  do  not  presume  to  dictate,  monsieur,  but  I  would  ap 
preciate  some  explanation  of  your  motive." 

"Which  I  freely  render,"  the  Marquis  replied.  "When 
I  recognized  you  a  week  ago — as  I  did  at  first  glance — I 
was  astounded.  That  you,  the  man  in  all  the  world  most 
cordially  hated  by  Frenchmen,  should  venture  into  France 
quite  unattended  was  a  conception  to  confound  belief. 
Still,  here  you  were,  and  I  realized  that  such  an  oppor- 

217 


(gallantry 

tunity  would  not  rap  twice  upon  the  door.  So  I  de 
spatched  a  letter  post-haste  to  Madame  de  Pompadour  at 
Marly—" 

"I  begin  to  comprehend,"  John  Bulmer  said.  "Old 
Tournehem's  daughter1  hates  me  as  she  hates  no  man 
alive.  Frankly,  monsieur,  your  excellent  directress  of 
the  Parc-aux-Cerfs  has  cause  to — may  I  trouble  you  for 
the  nut-crackers  ?  a  thousand  thanks — since  I  have  out 
witted  her  more  than  once,  both  in  diplomacy  and  on  the 
battle-field.  With  me  out  of  the  way  I  comprehend  that 
France  might  attempt  to  renew  the  war,  and  our  late 
treaty  would  be  so  much  wasted  paper.  Yes,  I  compre 
hend  that  she  would  give  a  deal  for  me — but  what  the 
devil !  France  has  no  allies.  She  dare  nor  provoke  Eng 
land  just  at  present;  she  has  no  allies,  monsieur,  for  I  can 
assure  you  that  Prussia  is  out  of  the  game.  Then  what 
is  the  woman  driving  at?" 

"Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  the  Marquis,  with  becoming 
modesty,  "to  meddle  with  affairs  of  state.  Nevertheless, 
madame  is  willing  to  purchase  you — at  any  price." 

John  Bulmer  slapped  his  thigh.  "Kaunitz!  behold 
the  key.  Eh,  eh,  I  have  it  now ;  the  Empress  despatched 
o'  late  a  special  ambassador  to  Versailles  —  one  Anton 
Wenzel  Kaunitz,  a  man  I  never  heard  of.  Why,  this 
Moravian  count  is  a  genius  of  the  first  water.  He  will 
combine  France  and  Austria,  implacable  enemies  since 
the  Great  Cardinal's  time.  Ah,  I  have  it  now,  monsieur 
— Frederick  of  Prussia  has  published  verses  against  the 
Pompadour  she  can  never  pardon  —  eh,  against  the 
Czaritza,  too!  Why,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  poet!  now 
Russia  will  join  the  league.  And  Sweden,  of  course,  be 
cause  she  wants  Pomerania,  which  King  Frederick  claims. 

1  Mr.  Bulmer  here  refers  to  a  venerable  scandal.  The  Pompadour 
was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  at  least,  the  daughter  of  Franjois  Poisson. 

218 


ttfrg 


ick  eh 


Jn  tlf?  J£?r0nJi  April 

Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  I  protest  it  will  be  one  of  the 
prettiest  messes  ever  stirred  up  in  history!  And  to  think 
that  I  am  to  miss  it  all!" 

"  I  regret,"  de  Soyecourt  said,  "  to  deny  you  the  pleasure 
of  participation.  In  sober  verity  I  regret  it.  But  un 
luckily,  Monsieur  d'Ormskirk,  your  dissolution  is  the  sole 
security  of  my  happiness ,  and  in  effect ' ' — he  shrugged — 
''you  comprehend  my  unfortunate  position." 

"  One  of  the  prettiest  messes  ever  stirred  up  in  all 
history!"  John  Bulmer  lamented;  "and  I  to  miss  it!  The 
policy  of  centuries  shrugged  aside,  like  a  last  year's  fash 
ion!  Decidedly  I  shall  never  again  cast  reflections  upon 
the  woman  in  politics,  for  this  is  superb.  Why,  this  coup 
is  worthy  of  me!  And  what  is  Petticoat  the  Second  to 
give  you,  pray,  for  making  all  this  possible?" 

"She  will  give  me,"  the  Marquis  retorted,  "according 
to  advices  received  from  her  yesterday,  a  lettre-de-cachet 
for  Gaston  de  Puysange.  Gaston  is  a  man  of  ability,  but 
he  is  also  a  man  of  unbridled  tongue.  He  has  expressed 
his  opinion  concerning  the  Pompadour,  to  cite  an  instance, 
as  freely  as  the  Comte  de  Maurepas  did.  You  know  what 
happened  to  him.  Ah,  yes,  Gaston  is  undoubtedly  a  peer 
of  France,  but  the  Pompadour  is  queen  of  that  kingdom. 
And  in  consequence — on  the  day  that  Madame  de  Pompa 
dour  learns  of  your  death — Gaston  goes  to  the  Bastile." 

"Naturally,"  John  Bulmer  assented,  "since  it  is  by 
ordinary  the  reward  of  common-sense  when  manifested 
by  a  Frenchman.  What  the  devil,  monsieur!  Marechal 
de  Richelieu  has  been  there  four  times  and  Gaston  him 
self,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  twice.  And  neither  is  one 
whit  the  worse  for  it." 

The  Marquis  sipped  his  coffee.  "The  Bastile  is  not  a 
very  healthy  place.  Besides,  I  have  a  friend  there — a 
gaoler.  He  was  formerly  a  chemist." 

219 


John  Bulmer  elevated  the  right  eyebrow.     "Poison?" 

"Dieu  m'en  garde!"  The  Marquis  was  appalled. 
"Nay,  monsieur,  merely  an  unforeseen  attack  of  heart- 
disease." 

"Ah!  ah!"  said  John  Bulmer,  very  slowly.  He  pres 
ently  resumed :  "  And  afterward  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange 
will  be  a  widow.  And  already  she  is  fond  of  you;  but 
unfortunately  the  Duchess — with  every  possible  deference 
—is  a  trifle  prudish.  I  see  it  all  now,  quite  plainly;  and 
out  of  pure  friendliness,  I  warn  you  that  in  my  opinion 
the  Duchess  is  hopelessly  in  love  with  her  husband." 

"I  sometimes  fear  she  has  been  guilty  of  that  weak 
ness,"  said  the  Marquis,  gloomily,  "yet  I  shall  take  my 
only  chance.  Believe  me,  Monsieur  le  Due,  I  profoundly 
regret  that  you  and  Gaston  must  be  sacrificed  in  order 
to  afford  me  this  same  chance." 

But  John  Bulmer  was  chuckling.  "  My  faith!"  he  said, 
and  softly  chafed  his  hands  together,  "how  sincerely  you 
will  be  horrified  when  your  impetuous  error  is  discovered 
— just  too  late!  You  wrere  merely  endeavoring  to  serve 
your  beloved  Gaston  and  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  when 
you  hanged  the  rascal  who  had  impudently  stolen  the 
woman  intended  to  cement  their  friendship!  The  Duke 
fell  a  victim  to  his  own  folly,  and  you  acted  precipitately, 
perhaps,  but  out  of  pure  zeal.  You  will  probably  weep. 
Meanwhile  your  lettre-de-cachet  is  on  the  road,  and  pres 
ently  Gaston,  too,  is  trapped  and  murdered.  You  weep 
yet  more  tears — O,  vociferous  tears! — and  the  Duchess 
marries  you  because  you  were  so  devotedly  attached  to 
her  former  husband.  And  England  will  sit  snug  while 
France  reconquers  Europe.  Monsieur,  I  make  you  my 
compliments  on  one  of  the  tidiest  plots  ever  brooded 


over." 


"It  rejoices  me,"  the  Marquis  returned,  "that  a  con- 

220 


3n  tire  g>?r0nfc  April 

spirator  of  many  years'  standing  should  commend  my 
maiden  effort."  He  rose  to  his  feet.  "And  now,  Mon 
sieur  d'Ormskirk,"  he  continued,  with  extended  hand, 
"matters  being  thus  amicably  adjusted,  shall  we  say 
adieu?" 

John  Bulmer  considered.  "  Well — no !"  said  he,  at  last ; 
"  for  there  are,  after  all,  such  things  as  decency  and  honor. 
I  commend  your  cleverness,  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  but 
as  concerns  your  hand  I  must  confess  to  a  distaste." 

The  Marquis  had  gone  white.  "  Because  at  the  bottom 
of  your  heart  you  despise  me,"  he  said.  "Ah,  believe 
me,  monsieur,  your  contempt  for  de  Soyecourt  is  less 
great  than  mine."  And  presently  he  had  left  the  garden. 


XI 

John  Bulmer  sat  down  to  consider  more  at  leisure 
these  revelations.  He  foreread  like  a  placard  Jeanne 
d'Etoiles'  magnificent  scheme:  it  would  convulse  all 
Europe,  while  England  would  remain  supine,  simply 
because  Newcastle  was  a  fool  and  Ormskirk  would  be 
dead.  He  would  barter  his  soul  for  one  hour  of  liberty, 
he  thought.  A  riot,  now  —  ay,  a  riot  in  Paris,  a  blow 
from  within,  would  temporarily  at  least  stupefy  French 
enterprise  and  gain  England  time  for  preparation.  And 
it  was  so  simple !  Mean  while  he  was  a  prisoner,  and  New 
castle  was  a  fool,  and  the  Pompadour  was  disastrously 
remote  from  being  a  fool. 

"  It  is  easy  to  announce  that  I  am  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk 
—and  to  what  end  ?  Faith,  I  had  as  well  proclaim  myself 
the  Pope  of  Rome  or  the  Cazique  of  Mexico:  the  jacka 
napes  will  affect  to  regard  my  confession  as  the  device 
of  a  desperate  man  and  hang  me  just  the  same;  and 

221 


(SaUantrg 

his  infernal  comedy  will  go  on  without  a  hitch.  Nay,  I 
am  fairly  trapped,  and  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  holds  the 
winning  hand — more  thanks  to  my  egregious  folly!  But 
to  be  outwitted — and  hanged — by  a  smirking  Hop-o'- 
my-thumb  ! 

"  O,  this  is  very  annoying!"  said  John  Buhner,  in  his 
impotence. 

He  sat  down  once  more,  sulkily,  like  an  overfed  cat, 
and  began  to  read  with  desperate  attention:  " '  Here  may 
men  understand  that  be  of  worship,  that  he  was  never 
formed  that  at  every  time  might  stand,  but  sometimes 
he  was  put  to  the  worse  by  evil  fortune.  And  at  some 
times  the  worse  knight  putteth  the  better  knight  into 
rebuke.'  Behold  a  niggardly  salve  rather  than  a  pana 
cea."  He  skipped.  " '  And  then  said  Sir  Tristram  to  Sir 
Lamorake,  "  I  require  you  if  ye  happen  to  meet  with  Sir 
Palomides—  Startled,  he  glanced  about  the  garden. 

And  later  it  turned  on  a  sudden  into  the  primal  garden 
of  Paradise.  "I  came,"  she  loftily  explained,  " because  I 
considered  it  my  duty  to  apologize  in  person  for  leading 
you  into  great  danger.  Our  scouts  tell  us  that  already 
Cazaio  is  marshalling  his  men  upon  the  Taunenfels." 

"  And  yet,"  John  Bulmer  said,  as  he  rose  from  his  read 
ing — though  he  was  but  cloudily  cognizant  of  what  he 
said, — "  Bellegarde  is  a  strong  place.  And  our  good 
Marquis,  whatever  else  he  may  be,  is  neither  a  fool  nor  a 
coward." 

Claire  shrugged.  "Cazaio  has  ten  men  to  our  one. 
Yet  perhaps  we  can  hold  out  till  Gaston  comes  with  his 
dragoons.  And  then — well,  I  have  some  influence  with 
Gaston.  He  will  not  deny  me — ah,  surely  he  will  not 
deny  me  if  I  go  down  on  my  knees  to  him  and  wear  my 
very  prettiest  gown.  Nay,  at  bottom  Gaston  is  kind, 
my  friend,  and  he  will  spare  you." 

233 


Jtt  if;?  S>er0nb  April 

"To  be  your  husband?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

Twice  she  faltered  "No,"  all  one  blush.  And  then  she 
cried,  with  a  sudden  flare  of  irritation:  "I  do  not  love 
you!  I  cannot  help  that.  O,  you  —  you  unutterable 
bully!" 

Gravely  he  shook  his  head  at  her. 

"You  are  a  bully.  You  are  trying  to  bully  me  into 
caring  for  you,  and  you  know  it.  What  else  moved  you 
to  return  to  Bellegarde,  and  to  sit  here,  a  doomed  man, 
tranquilly  reading?  Yes,  you  were — I  happened  to  see 
you  through  the  key- hole  in  the  gate.  And  why  else 
were  you  doing  that?" 

"  Because  I  adore  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "  and  because 
in  this  noble  and  joyous  history  of  the  great  conqueror  and 
excellent  monarch,  King  Arthur,  I  find  much  diverting 
matter,  and  because,  to  be  quite  frank,  Claire,  I  consider 
an  existence  without  you  neither  alluring  nor  possible." 

She  had  pinkened.  But,  "  O,  monsieur,"  the  girl  cried, 
"  you  are  laughing  because  you  are  afraid  that  I  will  laugh 
at  what  you  are  saying  to  me.  Believe  me,  I  have  no 
desire  to  laugh.  It — it  frightens  me,  rather.  I  had  not 
known  that  nowadays  men  might  love  so  greatly  and  with 
a  foolishness  so  divine.  I  had  thought  all  such  extrav 
agancy  perished  with  the  Launcelot  and  Palomides  of 
your  book.  I  had  thought — that  in  any  event,  you  had 
no  earthly  right  to  call  me  Claire." 

"Superficially,  the  reproach  is  just,"  he  assented,  "but 
what  was  the  name  your  Palomides  cried  in  battle,  pray  ? 
Was  it  not  Ysoude!  when  his  searching  sword  had  at  last 
found  the  joints  of  his  adversary's  armor,  and  the  man's 
helmet  spouted  blood?  Ysoude!  when  the  line  of  ad 
verse  spears  wavered  and  broke  and  dissolved  into  noth 
ingness,  and  the  Saracen  was  victor  ?  Was  it  not  Ysoude! 
he  murmured  riding  over  alien  hill  and  dale  in  pursuit  of 
'*  223 


(Saiiatttrg 

the  Questing  Beast? — 'the  glatisant  beast'?  Assuredly; 
and  meantime  La  Beale  Ysoude  sits  snug  in  Cornwall 
with  Tristram,  who  dons  his  armor  once  in  a  while  to  roll 
Palomides  in  the  sand  cor  am  populo.  Still  the  name  was 
sweet,  and  I  protest  the  Saracen  had  a  perfect  right  to 
mention  it  whenever  he  felt  so  inclined." 

"You  jest  at  everything,"  she  lamented — "which  is 
one  of  the  many  traits  that  I  dislike  in  you." 

"  Knowing  your  heart  to  be  very  tender,"  he  submitted, 
"  I  am  perhaps  endeavoring  to  present  as  jovial  and  in 
different  an  appearance  as  may  be  possible  in  spite  of 
your  rejection  of  my  addresses — to  you,  whom  I  love  as 
Palomides  loved  Ysoude.  Otherwise,  you  would  be  torn 
with  anguish.  Yet  stay ;  is  there  not  another  similitude  ? 
Assuredly,  for  you  love  me  much  as  Ysoude  loved  Palo 
mides.  What  the  deuce  is  all  this  lamentation  to  you? 
You  don't  value  it  the  beard  of  an  onion, — while  of  course 
grieving  that  your  friendship,  your  most  sincere  friend 
ship,  should  have  been  so  utterly  misconstrued,  and 
wrongly  interpreted,  and  trusting,  etc.,  etc.  O,  I  know 
you  women!" 

"I  sometimes  wonder,"  she  reflected,  "what  sort  of 
women  you  have  known — before?" 

He  waved  the  implied  query  to  the  evening  breeze. 
"It  is  not  a  matter  of  particular  import.  We  have 
fought,  you  and  I,  the  eternal  duel  of  the  sexes.  The 
battle  is  over,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  the  other 
side  has  won.  Well!  Pompey  was  reckoned  a  very 
pretty  fellow  in  his  day,  but  he  took  to  his  heels  at 
Pharsalia,  for  all  that;  and  Hannibal,  I  have  heard,  did 
not  have  matters  entirely  his  own  way  at  Zama.  In 
any  event,  good  men  have  been  beaten  before  this.  So, 
without  stopping  to  cry  over  spilt  milk — heyho!"  he 
interpolated,  with  a  grimace;  "it  was  uncommonly  sweet 

224 


Jn  llj?  j$?r0n&  April 

milk,  though — let's  back  to  our  tents  and  reckon  up  our 
wounds." 

"I  am  decidedly  of  the  opinion,"  she  said,  "that  for 
all  your  talk  you  will  find  your  heart  unscratched." 
Irony  bewildered  Claire,  though  she  invariably  greeted 
it  with  a  polite  smile. 

John  Bulmer  said:  "Faith,  I  do  not  intend  to  flatter 
your  vanity  by  going  into  a  decline  on  the  spot.  For  in 
perfect  frankness,  I  find  no  mortal  wounds  anywhere. 
We  have  it  on  the  best  authority  that,  while  many  men 
have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them, 
it  was  never  for  love.  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  Rosa 
lind  :  an  aneurism  may  be  fatal,  but  a  broken  heart  is 
scarcely  so.  Lovers  have  died  in  divers  manners  since 
the  antique  world  was  made,  but  not  the  most  luckless  of 
them  was  slain  by  love.  Even  Palomides,  as  my  book 
informs  me,  went  abroad  with  Launcelot  and  probably 
died  an  old  man  here  in  France — peaceably,  in  his  bed, 
as  genteel  people  should ;  and  I  dare  assert  that  long  ere 
this  unchronicled  demise  he  had  learned  to  chuckle  over 
his  youthful  follies,  and  had  protested  to  his  wife  La  Beale 
Ysoude  squinted,  or  was  freckled,  or  the  like;  and  had  in 
sisted,  laughingly,  that  the  best  of  us  must  sow  our  wild 
oats.  And  at  the  last  it  was  his  wife  who  mixed  his  gruel 
and  smoothed  his  pillow  and  sat  up  with  him  o'  nights, 
and  in  consequence  if  he  died  thinking  of  Madame  Palo 
mides  rather  than  La  Beale  Ysoude,  who  shall  blame  him  ? 
Not  I,  for  one,"  said  John  Bulmer,  stoutly;  "if  it  was 
not  heroic,  it  was  at  least  respectable,  and  above  all 
natural;  and  I  expect  some  day  to  stammer  through  a 
twin  valedictory.  When  I  set  about  the  process  of  dying, 
I  may  be  thinking  of  you,  O  fair  lost  lady!  and  again  I 
may  not.  Who  can  say  ?  A  fly,  for  instance,  may  have 
lighted  upon  my  nose  and  his  tickling  may  have  dis- 

225 


traded  my  ultimate  thoughts.  Meanwhile,  I  love  you 
consumedly,  and  you  don't  care  a  snap  of  your  fingers 
for  me.  Faith,  it  is  very  amusing." 

"I — I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  inadequately. 

"  You  are  the  more  gracious."  And  his  face  sank  down 
into  his  hands,  and  even  Claire  was  forgotten,  for  he  was 
remembering  Alison  Pleydell  and  that  ancient  bankruptcy 
of  his  heart  in  youth.  And  the  man  groaned  aloud. 

A  hand,  feather-soft,  fell  upon  his  shoulder.  "And 
who  was  your  Ysoude,  Jean  Bulmer?" 

"  A  woman  who  died  twenty  years  ago — a  woman  dead 
ere  you  were  born,  my  dear." 

Claire  gave  a  little  stifled  moan.  "  O — O,  I  loathe  her!" 
she  cried. 

But  when  he  raised  his  head  she  was  gone. 


XII 

He  sat  long  in  the  twilight,  now  rising  insensibly  about 
him.  The  garden  had  become  a  grave,  yet  not  unfriendly, 
place ;  the  white  straining  Nereids  were  taking  on  a  tinge 
of  violet,  the  verdure  was  of  a  deeper  hue,  that  was  all; 
and  the  fountain  plashed  unhurriedly,  as  though  measur 
ing  a  reasonable  interval  (he  whimsically  thought)  be 
tween  the  asking  of  a  riddle  and  its  solution  given  gratis 
by  the  asker. 

He  loved  the  woman;  granted:  but  did  not  love  rise 
the  higher  above  a  corner-stone  of  delusion  ?  And  this  he 
could  never  afford.  He  considered  Claire  to  be  not  ex 
travagantly  clever,  he  could  have  improved  upon  her 
ears  (to  cite  one  instance),  which  were  rather  clumsily 
modelled;  her  finger-tips  were  a  thought  too  thick,  a 
shade  too  practical,  and  in  fine  she  was  no  more  the  most 

226 


Jtt  tfytf  ^^tnnb  April 


beautiful  woman  in  the  world  than  she  was  the  tallest: 
and  yet  he  loved  her.  Here  was  no  infatuation,  no 
roseate  and  kindly  haze  surrounding  a  goddess,  such  as 
that  which  had  by  ordinary  accompanied  Alison  Pleydell. 

"I  am  grown  older,  perhaps.  Perhaps  it  is  merely 
that  I  arn  fashioned  of  baser  stuff  than  —  say,  Achille 
Cazaio  or  de  Soyecourt.  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  this  over 
mastering,  all-engulfing  love  is  a  mere  figment  of  the 
poet,  an  age-long  superstition  as  zealously  preserved  as 
that  of  the  inscrutability  of  women,  and  both  by  men 
who  don't  believe  a  syllable  of  either.  Ysoude  is  dead; 
and  I  love  my  young  French  wife  as  thoroughly  as  Palo- 
mides  did,  with  as  great  a  passion  as  was  possible  to 
either  of  us  oldsters.  Well!  all  life  is  a  compromise;  I 
compromise  with  tradition  by  loving  her  unselfishly,  by 
loving  her  with  the  very  best  that  remains  in  John 
Bulmer.  Soit!  I  love  her  and  the  die  is  cast.  I  mean 
to  have  her  and  afterward  she  shall  be  content. 

"True,  I  may  be  hanged  at  noon  to-morrow,  which 
would  somewhat  disconcert  my  plan.  I  shall  not  bother 
about  that.  Always  there  remains  the  slender  chance 
that,  somehow,  Gaston  may  arrive  in  time:  and  other 
wise  —  why,  otherwise  I  shall  be  hanged,  and  as  to  what 
will  happen  afterward  I  decline  to  enter  into  any  discus 
sion  even  with  myself.  I  have  my  belief,  but  it  is  bol 
stered  by  no  iota  of  knowledge.  Faith,  let  us  live  this 
life  as  a  gentleman  should,  and  keep  our  hands  and  our 
consciences  as  clean  as  may  be  possible,  and  for  the  out 
come  trust  to  God's  common-sense.  There  are  certain 
people  who  must  divert  Him  vastly  by  their  frantic  efforts 
to  keep  out  of  hell.  For  my  own  part,  I  would  not  think 
of  wearing  a  pelisse  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara  merely  because 
I  happened  to  be  sailing  for  Greenland  during  the  ensuing 
week.  I  shall  trust  to  His  common-sense. 

227 


(gallantry 

"I  wish  Reinault  would  hurry  with  the  supper-trays. 
I  am  growing  very  hungry." 


XIII 

That  night  he  was  roused  by  a  tapping  at  his  door. 
"Jean  Bulmer,  Jean  Bulmer!  I  have  bribed  Reinault. 
I  have  the  keys.  Come,  and  I  will  set  you  free." 

"To  do  what?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"To  escape — to  flee  to  your  foggy  England,"  said  the 
voice  without, — "and  to  your  hideous  Englishwomen." 

"Do  you  go  with  me?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"I  do  not."  This  was  spoken  from  the  turrets  of 
decision. 

"In  that  event,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  shall  return  to 
my  dreams,  which  I  infinitely  prefer  to  the  realities  of  a 
hollow  existence.  And,  besides,  now  one  thinks  of  it,  I 
have  given  my  parole." 

An  infuriate  voice  came  through  the  key -hole.  "You 
are  a  bully,"  it  stated.  "  I  loathe  you."  Followed  silence. 

Presently  the  voice  said:  "Because  if  you  really  loved 
her  you  were  no  better  than  she  was,  and  so  I  hate  you 
both." 

"'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil," 
was  John  Buhner's  meditation.     "And  if  I  slink  off  to 
night  I  shall  never  be  to  her  anything  more  than  her  hus 
band."     Afterward  John  Bulmer  turned  over  and  went 
back  to  sleep. 

For,  after  all,  as  he  reflected,  he  had  given  his  parole; 
and  always  it  pleased  the  notorious  trickster,  by  some 
odd  quirk  of  vanity,  to  have  it  said  of  Ormskirk  that 
the  formal  word  of  Ormskirk,  once  given,  had  never  yet 
been  broken. 

228 


Jn  tlje  I£?r0tt&  April 

XIV 

He  was  awakened  later  by  a  shriek  that  was  followed 
by  a  hubbub  of  tumult,  what  time  John  Bulmer  sat 
erect  in  bed.  Ensued  a  medley  of  yelling,  of  musketry, 
and  of  crashes,  as  the  dilapidation  of  falling  battlements. 
He  knew  well  enough  what  had  happened.  Cazaio  and 
his  men  were  making  a  night  attack  upon  Bellegarde. 

John  Bulmer  arose  and,  having  lighted  two  candles, 
dressed  himself.  He  cast  aside  the  first  cravat  as  a 
failure,  knotted  the  second  with  scrupulous  nicety,  and 
afterward  sat  down,  facing  the  door  to  his  apartment,  and 
trimmed  his  finger  nails.  Outside  was  Pandemonium,  as 
the  saying  is,  and  the  little  scrap  of  sky  visible  from  his 
one  window  was  now  of  a  sullen  red. 

"It  is  very  curious  I  do  not  suffer  more  acutely.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  particular 
feeling  at  all.  I  believe  that  most  of  us  when  we  are 
confronted  with  a  situation  demanding  high  joy  or  agony 
find  ourselves  quite  void  of  emotion.  They  have  evi 
dently  taken  de  Soyecourt  by  surprise.  She  is  yonder  in 
that  hell  outside  and  will  inevitably  be  captured  by  its 
most  lustful  devil — or  else  be  murdered.  I  am  here  like 
a  trapped  rat,  impotent,  waiting  to  be  killed,  which 
Cazaio's  men  will  certainly  attend  to  when  they  ransack 
the  place  and  find  me.  And  I  feel  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing. 

"  By  this  she  has  probably  fallen  into  Cazaio's  power— 

And  the  man  went  mad.  "  God,  God!"  he  wailed  aloud, 
like  a  whipped  child.  And  he  dashed  upon  the  locked 
door,  and  tore  at  it  with  soft  white  hands,  so  that  pres 
ently  they  were  all  blood.  He  beat  his  face  upon  the 
door,  cutting  open  his  forehead.  He  sobbed  with  odd 
bestial  noises  and  bit  at  the  air, 

229 


He  shook  his  bleeding  hands  toward  heaven.  "  In  my 
time  I  have  been  cruel.  I  am  less  cruel  than  You!  Let 
me  go!" 

The  door  opened  and  she  stood  upon  the  threshold. 
His  arms  were  about  her  and  repeatedly  he  kissed  her, 
mercilessly,  with  hard  kisses,  crushing  her  in  his  embrace. 

"Jean,  Jean!"  she  sobbed,  beneath  his  lips,  and  lay 
quite  still  in  his  arms.  He  saw  how  white  and  tender  a 
thing  she  was,  and  the  fierce  embrace  relaxed. 

"You  came  to  me!"  he  said,  stupidly. 

4 'Louis  had  forgotten  you.  They  had  all  retreated  to 
the  Inner  Tower.1  Cazaio  cannot  take  that,  for  he  has 
no  cannon.  Louis  can  hold  out  there  until  Gas  ton  comes 
with  help,"  Claire  rapidly  said.  "But  the  thieves  are 
burning  Bellegarde.  I  could  bribe  no  man  to  set  you 
free.  They  were  afraid  to  venture." 

"And  you  came,"  said  John  Buhner — "you  left  the 
safe  Inner  Tower  to  come  to  me!" 

"  I  could  not  let  you  die,  Jean  Bulmer." 

11  No  ?  Then  I  will  live — I  will  live  not  unworthily  the 
life  which  you  have  given  me.  O  God!"  John  Bulmer 
cried,  "what  a  pitiful  creature  was  that  great  Duke  of 
Ormskirk!  Now  make  a  man  of  me,  O  God!" 

"Listen,  dear  madman,"  she  breathed;  "we  cannot  go 
out  into  Bellegarde.  They  are  everywhere — Cazaio's  men. 
They  are  building  huge  fires  about  the  Inner  Tower ;  but 
it  is  all  stone,  and  I  think  Louis  can  hold  out.  But  we, 
Jean  Bulmer,  can  only  retreat  to  the  roofing  of  this  place. 
There  is  but  a  trap-door  to  admit  you  to  the  top,  and 
there — there  we  can  at  least  live  until  the  dawn." 

1  The  inner  ward,  or  ballium,  which  (according  to  Quinault)  was  de 
fended  by  ten  towers,  connected  by  an  embattled  stone  wall  about 
thirty  feet  in  height  and  eight  feet  thick,  on  the  summit  of  which  was 
a  footway;  now  demolished  to  make  way  for  the  famous  gardens. 

230 


3tt  tlje  §>er0nfc  April 


"I  am  unarmed,"  John  Bulmer  said,  "and  weaponless, 
I  cannot  hold  even  a  trap-door  against  armed  men." 

"I  have  brought  you  weapons,"  Claire  returned,  and 
waved  one  hand  toward  the  outer  passageway.  "Nat 
urally  I  would  not  overlook  that.  There  were  many 
dead  men  on  my  way  hither,  and  they  had  no  need  of 
weapons.  I  have  a  sword  here  and  wo  pistols." 

"You  are,"  said  John  Bulmer,  with  supreme  convic 
tion,  "  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  universe.  By 
all  means  let  us  get  to  the  top  of  this  infernal  tower  and 
live  there  as  long  as  we  may  find  it  possible.  But  first, 
will  you  permit  me  to  make  myself  a  thought  tidier? 
For  in  my  recent  agitation  as  to  your  whereabouts  I 
have,  I  perceive,  somewhat  disordered  both  my  person 
and  my  apparel." 

Claire  laughed  a  little  sadly.  "  You  have  been  sincere 
for  once  in  your  existence,  and  you  are  hideously  ashamed, 
is  it  not  ?  Ah,  my  friend,  I  would  like  you  so  much  better 
if  you  were  not  always  playing  at  life,  not  always  posing 
as  for  your  portrait." 

"For  my  part,"  said  he,  obscurely,  from  the  rear  of  a 
wet  towel,  "  I  fail  to  perceive  any  particular  merit  in 
dying  with  a  dirty  face.  We  are  about  to  deal  with  the 
most  important  and,  by  an  ill  chance,  the  final  crisis  of 
our  lives.  So  let  us  do  it  with  decency." 

Afterward  he  changed  his  cravat,  since  the  one  he  wore 
was  soiled  and  crumpled  and  stained  a  little  with  his 
blood,  and  they  went  up  the  winding  stairway  to  the  top 
of  the  Constable's  Tower.  These  two  passed  through  the 
trap-door  into  a  moonlight  which  drenched  the  world; 
westward  the  higher  walls  of  the  Hugonet  Wing  shut  off 
that  part  of  Bellegarde  where  men  were  slaughtering  one 
another,  and  the  turrets  of  it,  black  and  untenanted, 
stood  in  strong  relief  against  a  sky  of  shifting  crimson 

231 


(gallantrg 

and  gold.  At  their  feet  was  the  tiny  enclosed  garden 
half-hidden  by  the  poplar  boughs.  And  to  the  east  the 
Tower  dropped  sheer  to  the  moat ;  and  past  that  was  the 
curve  of  the  highway  leading  to  the  main  entrance  of  the 
chateau,  and  the  moonlighted  plains  of  the  Duardenez, 
and  one  little  tributary,  a  thread  of  pulsing  silver,  in 
passage  to  the  great  river  which  showed  as  a  smear  of 
white  only,  like  a  chalk-mark  on  the  world's  rim. 

John  Bulmer  closed  the  trap-door.  They  stood  with 
clasped  hands,  eyes  straining  toward  the  east,  whence 
help  must  arrive  if  it  came  at  all. 

"No  sign  of  Gaston,"  the  girl  said.  "We  must  die 
presently,  Jean  Bulmer." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said — "O,  I  am  hideously  sorry  that 
we  two  must  die." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  Jean  Bulmer.  But  life  would  be  very 
sweet,  with  you." 

"That  was  my  thought,  too.  ...  I  have  always  bun 
gled  this  affair  of  living,  you  conceive.  I  had  considered 
the  world  a  healthy  and  not  intolerable  prison,  where 
each  man  must  get  through  his  day's  work  as  best  he 
might,  soiling  his  fingers  as  much  as  necessity  demanded — 
but  no  more — so  that  at  the  end  he  might  sleep  soundly, 
— or  perhaps  that  he  might  go  to  Heaven  and  pluck  eter 
nally  at  a  harp,  or  else  to  hell  and  burn  eternally,  just  as 
divines  say  we  will.  I  never  bothered, about  it,  much,  so 
long  as  there  was  any  work  at  hand  which  demanded 
performance.  And  in  consequence  I  missed  the  whole 
meaning  of  life." 

"Not  so!"  Claire  replied.  "No  man  has  played  a 
greater  part  in  our  little  world." 

This  was  an  odd  speech.  But  he  answered,  idly:  "  Eh, 
I  have  done  well  enough  as  respectable  persons  judge 
these  matters.  And  I  went  to  church  on  Sunday,  and 

232 


3n  tfj?  g>er0nfc  April 

I  paid  my  tithes.  Trifles,  these,  sweetheart ;  for  in  every 
man,  as  I  now  see  quite  plainly,  there  is  a  god.  And  the 
god  must  judge,  and  the  man  himself  be  but  the  temple 
and  the  instrument  of  the  god.  It  is  very  simple,  I  think. 
And  whether  he  go  to  church  or  no  is  a  matter  of  trivial 
importance,  so  long  as  the  man  obey  the  god  which  is 
within  him."  He  was  silent  now,  staring  vaguely  toward 
the  blank  horizon. 

"And  now  that  you  have  discovered  this,"  she  mur 
mured,  "therefore  you  wish  to  live?" 

"Why,  partly  on  account  of  that,"  he  said,  "yet  per 
haps  mostly  on  account  of  you.  .  .  .  But  heyho!"  said 
John  Bulmer;  "I  am  disfiguring  my  last  hours  by  in 
flicting  upon  a  lady  my  half-baked  theology.  Let  us  sit 
down,  my  dear,  and  talk  of  trifles  till  they  find  us.  And 
then  I  will  kill  you,  sweetheart,  and  afterward  myself. 
Presently  come  dawn  and  death ;  and  my  heart,  according 
to  the  ancient  custom  of  Poictesme,  cries,  *  Oy  Dieus! 
Oy  Dieus,  de  I'alba  tantost  ve!'  but  for  all  that  my  mouth 
will  resolutely  discourse  of  the  last  Parisian  flounces,  or 
of  your  unfathomable  eyes,  or  of  Monsieur  de  Voltaire's 
new  tragedy  of  Oreste — or,  in  fine,  of  any  topic  you  may 
elect." 

He  smiled,  with  a  twinging  undercurrent  of  regret  that 
not  even  in  impendent  death  did  he  find  any  stimulus  to 
the  heroical.  But  the  girl  had  given  a  muffled  cry. 

"Look,  Jean!     Already  they  come  for  us." 

Through  the  little  garden  a  man  was  running,  doubling 
like  a  cornered  beast  wrhen  he  found  the  place  had  no 
outlet  save  the  gate  through  which  he  had  scuttled.  It 
was  fat  Guiton,  the  steward  of  the  Due  de  Puysange. 
Presently  came  Achille  Cazaio  and  harried  the  unarmed 
old  man  with  a  wet  sword,  wantonly  driving  him  about 
the  poplars,  pricking  him  in  the  quivering  shoulders,  but 

233 


(gallantry 

never  killing  him.  All  the  while  the  steward  screamed 
with  the  monotonous  and  shrill  wail  of  a  madwoman. 

After  a  little  he  fell  at  Cazaio's  feet,  shrieking  for 
mercy. 

"Fool!"  said  the  latter,  "I  am  Achille  Cazaio.  I  have 
no  mercy  in  me." 

He  kicked  the  steward  in  the  face  two  or  three  times, 
and  Guiton,  his  countenance  all  blood,  black  in  the  moon 
light,  embraced  the  brigand's  knees  and  wept.  Present 
ly  Cazaio  slowly  drove  his  sword  into  the  back  of  the 
prostrate  man,  who  shrieked,  "O  Jesu!"  and  began  to 
cough  and  choke.  Five  times  Cazaio  spitted  the  writh 
ing  thing,  and  afterward  was  Guiton's  soul  released  from 
the  tortured  body. 

"Is  it  well,  think  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "that  I 
should  die  without  first  killing  Achille  Cazaio?" 

"No!"  Claire  answered,  fiercely. 

Then  John  Bulmer  leaned  upon  the  parapet  of  the 
Constable's  Tower  and  called  aloud:  "Friend  Achille, 
your  conduct  disappoints  me." 

The  man  started,  peered  about,  and  presently  stared 
upward.  "  Monsieur  Bulmaire,  this  is  indeed  an  unlooked- 
for  pleasure.  May  I  inquire  wherein  I  have  been  so  ill- 
fated  as  to  offend  you?" 

"You  have  an  engagement  to  fight  me  on  Thursday 
afternoon,  friend  Achille,  so  that  to  all  intent  I  hold  a 
sort  of  mortgage  on  your  life.  I  submit  that,  in  conse 
quence,  you  have  no  right  to  endanger  it  by  besieging 
castles  and  wasting  the  night  in  horticultural  assassina 
tions." 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  Monsieur  Bul 
maire,"  the  brigand  replied,  "and  I  very  heartily  apolo 
gize  for  not  thinking  of  it  earlier.  But  in  the  way  of 
business,  you  understand —  However,  may  I  trust  it 

234 


April 

will  please  you  to  release  me  from  this  inconvenient 
obligation?"  Cazaio  added,  with  a  smile.  "My  men  are 
waiting  for  me  yonder,  you  comprehend." 

"In  fact,"  said  John  Bulmer,  hospitably,  "the  moon 
light  up  here  is  clear  as  day.  We  can  settle  our  affair  in 
five  minutes." 

"I  come,"  said  Cazaio,  and  plunged  into  the  entrance 
to  the  Constable's  Tower. 

"The  pistol!  quick!"  said  Claire. 

"And  for  what,  pray?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"  So  that  from  behind,  as  he  lifts  the  trap-door,  I  may 
shoot  him  through  the  head.  Do  you  stand  in  front  as 
though  to  receive  him.  It  will  be  quite  simple." 


XV 

"My  dear  creature,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  am  now 
doubly  persuaded  that  God  had  entirely  run  out  of  what 
we  term  a  sense  of  honor  when  He  created  the  woman. 
I  mean  to  kill  this  rapscallion,  but  in  passing  I  mean  to 
kill  him  fairly."  He  unbolted  the  trap-door  and  im 
mediately  Cazaio  stood  upon  the  roof,  his  sword  drawn. 

Achille  Cazaio  stared  at  the  tranquil  woman,  and  now 
his  countenance  was  less  that  of  a  satyr  than  of  a  demon. 
"At  four  in  the  morning!  I  congratulate  you,  Monsieur 
Bulmaire,"  he  said — "O,  decidedly,  I  congratulate  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  John  Buhner,  sword  in  hand;  "yes, 
we  were  married  yesterday." 

Cazaio,  with  the  agility  of  a  snake,  drew  a  pistol  from 
his  girdle  and  fired  full  in  John  Bulmer's  face;  but  more 
quickly  the  latter  had  fallen  upon  one  knee  and  the  ball 
sped  harmlessly  above  him. 

"You  are  very  careless  with  fire-arms,"  John  Bulmer 

235 


(gallantrg 

lamented.  "Really,  friend  Achille,  if  you  are  not  more 
circumspect  you  will  presently  injure  somebody  and  for 
ever  afterward  be  consumed  with  unavailing  regret  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  Now  let  us  get  down  to  our  affair." 

They  crossed  blades  in  the  moonlight.  Cazaio  was  in 
vein  to-night;  John  Bulmer's  tolerant  acceptance  of  any 
meanness  that  a  Cazaio  might  attempt,  the  vital  shame 
of  this  new  and  baser  failure  before  Claire's  very  eyes, 
had  made  of  Cazaio  a  crazed  beast.  He  slobbered  little 
flecks  of  foam,  clinging  like  hoar-frost  to  the  tangled 
beard,  and  breathed  with  shuddering  inhalations,  like  a 
man  in  agony,  what  time  he  charged  with  redoubling 
thrusts.  The  Englishman  appeared  to  be  enjoying  him 
self,  but  quite  discreetly ;  he  chuckled  as  the  other  cursed 
and  shifted  from  tierce  to  quart,  and  met  the  assault  with 
a  nice  inevitableness ;  in  short,  each  movement  had  the 
comely  precision  of  some  finely  adjusted  clockwork, 
though  at  times  John  Bulmer's  face  showed  a  spurt  of 
mild  amusement  roused  by  the  brigand's  extravagancy  of 
gesture  and  his  contortions  as  he  strove  to  pass  the  line 
of  steel  that  flickered  cannily  between  his  sword  and 
John  Bulmer's  portly  bosom. 

Then  John  Bulmer,  too,  attacked.  "  For  Guiton!"  said 
he,  as  his  point  slipped  into  Cazaio's  breast.  He  recoiled 
and  lodged  another  thrust  in  the  brigand's  throat.  "For 
attempting  to  assassinate  me!"  His  foot  stamped  as  his 
sword  ran  deep  into  Cazaio's  belly.  "For  insulting  my 
wife  by  thinking  of  her  obscenely !  You  are  a  dead  man, 
friend  Achille." 

Cazaio  had  dropped  his  sword,  reeling  as  drunken 
against  the  western  battlement.  "My  comfort,"  he  said, 
hoarsely,  while  one  hand  tore  at  his  jetting  throat — "my 
comfort  is  that  I  could  not  perish  slain  by  a  braver  enemy." 
He  moaned  and  stumbled  backward.  Momentarily  his 

236 


3tt  tlje  g>er0tt&   April 

knees  gripped  the  low  embrasure.  Then  his  feet  flipped 
upward,  convulsively,  so  that  John  Bulmer  saw  his  spurs 
glitter  and  twitch  in  the  moonlight,  and  there  was  a 
snapping  and  crackling  and  swishing  among  the  poplars, 
and  immediately  the  slump  of  his  body  upon  the  turf 
below. 

"May  he  find  more  mercy  than  he  has  merited,"  said 
John  Bulmer,  "for  the  man  had  excellent  traits.  Yes, 
in  him  the  making  of  a  very  good  swordsman  was  spoiled 
by  that  abominable  Boisrobert." 

But  Claire  had  caught  him  by  the  shoulder.  "Look, 
Jean  I" 

He  turned  and  stared  toward  the  Duardenez.  A  troop 
of  horse  was  nearing.  Now  they  had  swept  about  the 
curve  in  the  highway  and  at  their  head  was  de  Puysange, 
laughing  terribly.  They  went  by  like  a  tumult  in  some 
sick  man's  dream,  and  the  Hugonet  Wing  had  screened 
them,  swift  as  thought. 

"Then  is  Bellegarde  relieved,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "and 
your  life,  at  least,  is  saved." 

The  girl  stormed.  "You — you  thing!"  said  she;  "you 
would  not  be  content  with  the  keys  of  Heaven  if  you  had 
not  got  them  by  outwitting  somebody!  Do  you  fancy  I 
had  never  seen  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk 's  portrait?  Gaston 
sent  me  one  six  months  ago." 

"Ah!"  said  John  Bulmer,  very  quietly.  He  took  up 
the  discarded  scabbard  and  sheathed  his  sword  without 
speaking. 

Presently  he  said:  "  You  have  been  cognizant  all  along 
that  I  was  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  promptly. 

"And  you  married  me,  knowing  that  I  was — God  save 
the  mark  1— the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk?  knowing  that 
you  made  what  we  must  grossly  term  a  brilliant  match?" 

237 


(Salianirg 

"  I  married  you  because,  in  spite  of  Jean  Bulmer,  you 
had  betrayed  yourself  to  be  a  daring  and  a  gallant  gen 
tleman, — and  because  for  a  moment  I  thought  that  I 
did  not  dislike  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  quite  so  much  as 
I  ought  to." 

He  digested  this. 

"O  Jean  Bulmer,"  the  girl  said,  "they  tell  me  you 
were  ever  a  fortunate  man,  but  I  consider  you  the  unluck- 
iest  I  know  of.  For  always  you  are  afraid  to  be  yourself. 
Sometimes  you  forget,  and  are  just  you — and  then,  ohe! 
you  remember,  and  are  only  a  sulky,  fat  old  gentleman 
who  is  not  you  at  all,  somehow ;  so  that  at  times  I  detest 
you,  and  at  times  I  cannot  thoroughly  detest  you.  So 
that  I  played  out  the  comedy,  Jean  Bulmer.  I  meant  in 
the  end  to  tell  Louis  who  you  were,  of  course,  and  not  let 
them  hang  you,  but  I  never  quite  trusted  you;  and  I 
never  knew  whether  I  detested  you  or  no,  at  bottom, 
until  last  night." 

"  Last  night  you  left  the  safe  Inner  Tower  to  come  to 
me — to  save  me  at  all  hazards,  or  else  to  die  with  me — " 
His  voice  rang  like  a  trumpet.  "And  for  what  reason, 
Claire?" 

"You  are  bullying  me!"  she  wailed. 

"And  for  what  reason,  Claire?"  he  repeated,  without 
any  change  of  intonation. 

"Can  you  not  guess?"  she  said.  "O,  because  I  am  a 
fool!"  she  said,  but  very  happily,  for  his  arms  were  about 
her. 

"Eh,  in  that  event — "  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk. 
"Look!"  said  he,  with  a  deeper  thrill  of  speech,  "it  is 
the  dawn." 

They  turned  hand-in-hand ;  and  out  of  the  east  the  sun 
came  statelily,  and  a  new  day  was  upon  them. 


of 


As  Played  at  Paris,  in  the  May  of  1750 

"  Cette  amour  euse  ardeur  qui  dans  les  cceurs  s'  excite 
N'est  point,  comme  Von  sgait,  un  effet  du  merite; 
Le  caprice  y  prend  part,  et,  quand  quelqu'un  nous  plaist, 
Souvent  nous  avons  peine  a  dire  pourquoy  c'est. 
Mais  on  vois  que  V  amour  se  gouverne  autrement." 
16 


Dramatis 


Due  DE  PUYSANGE,  somewhat  given  to  women,  and  now  and 
then  to  good-fellowship,  but  a  man  of  excellent  dispo 
sition. 

MARQUIS  DE  SOYECOURT,  his  cousin,  and  loves  de  Puysange's 
wife. 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

DUCHESSE  DE  PUYSANGE,  a  precise,  but  amiable  and  patient, 
woman. 

ANTOINE,  LACKEYS  to  de  Puysange,  Etc, 

SCENE 
Paris,  mostly  within  and  about  the  Hotel  de  Puysange. 


PROEM :— Necessitated  by  a  Change  of  Scene 

OU  are  not  to  imagine  that  John  Bulmer 
debated  an  exposure  of  de  Soyecourt. 
"  Live  and  let  live  "  was  the  Englishman's 
axiom ;  the  exuberant  Cazaio  was  dead,  his 
men  were  either  slain  or  dispersed,  and  the 
whole  tangle  of  errors — with  judicious  res 
ervations — had  been  unravelled  to  Gaston's  satisfaction. 
And  Claire  de  Puysange  was  now  Duchess  of  Ormskirk. 
Why,  then,  meddle  with  Destiny,  who  appeared,  after  all, 
to  possess  a  certain  sense  of  equity  ? 

So  Ormskirk  smiled  as  he  presently  went  about  Paris,  on 
his  own  business,  and  when  he  and  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
encountered  one  another  their  friendliness  was  positively 
monstrous  in  its  sincerity. 

They  were  now  one  and  all  in  Paris,  where  Ormskirk's 
marriage  had  been  again,  and  more  publicly,  solemnized. 
De  Puysange  swore  his  sister  was  on  this  occasion  the 
loveliest  person  afforded  by  the  resources  of  the  uni 
verse,  but  de  Soyecourt  backed  another  candidate,  so 
that  over  their  wine  the  two  gentlemen  presently  fell  into 
a  dispute. 

"Nay,  but  I  protest  to  you  she  is  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  all  Paris!"  cried  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt,  and 
kissed  his  finger-tips  gallantly. 

"My  dear  Louis,"  the  Due  de  Puysange  retorted,  "her 

241 


(gallantry 

eyes  are  noticeable,  perhaps;  and,  I  grant  you,"  he  added, 
slowly,  "  that  her  husband  is  not  often  troubled  by — that 
which  they  notice." 

"And  the  cleverest!" 

"  I  have  admitted  she  knows  when  to  be  silent.  What 
more  would  you  demand  of  any  woman?" 

"And  yet — "  The  little  Marquis  waved  a  reproachful 
forefinger. 

"Precisely,"  said  the  Duke,  with  utter  comprehension. 

He  was  in  a  genial  midnight  mood,  and,  on  other  subjects, 
inclined  to  be  garrulous;  for  the  world,  viewed  through 
a  slight  haze,  of  vinous  origin,  seemed  a  pleasant  place, 
just  now,  and  inspired  a  kindly  and  a  natural  desire  to  say 
diverting  things  about  its  contents.  He  loved  de  Soye- 
court  as  he  loved  no  other  man ;  he  knew  the  Marquis  to  be 
patient  and  long-suffering,  even  stolid,  under  a  fusillade  of 
epigram  and  paradox ;  and,  in  short,  he  knew  the  hour  and 
the  antagonist  for  midnight  talk  to  be  at  hand.  And  a 
saturnalia  of  flushed  and  pink-tighted  phrases  whirled  in 
his  brain,  demanding  an  alluring  utterance. 

He  waved  them  aside.  Certain  inbred  ideas  are  strange 
ly  tenacious  of  existence,  and  it  happened  to  be  his  wife 
they  were  discussing. 


"And  yet,"  de  Puysange  queried  of  his  soul,  as  he 
climbed  democratically  into  a  fiacre,  "why  not?  For 
my  part,  I  see  no  good  and  sufficient  reason  for  discrim 
inating  against  the  only  woman  one  has  sworn  to  love 
and  cherish  and  honor.  It  is  true  that  several  hundred 
people  witnessed  the  promise,  with  a  perfect  understand 
ing  of  the  jest,  and  that  the  keeping  of  this  oath  involves  a 
certain  breach  of  faith  with  society.  Eh  bien!  let  us, 

242 


nf 

then,  deceive  the  world — and  the  flesh — and  the  devil! 
Let  us  snap  our  fingers  at  this  unholy  trinity,  and  make 
unstinted  love  to  our  own  wives!" 

He  settled  back  in  the  fiacre  to  deliberate.     "C'est 
bourgeois,"  said  he;  "bah!  the  word  is  the  first  refuge  of 
Jthe   unskilful   poseur!     It  is  bourgeois  to  be  born,    to 
i breathe,  to  sleep,  to  die;  and  in  which  of  these  functions, 
which  consume  the  greater  part  of  my  life,  do  I  differ 
j  from  my  grocer?      Bourgeois!    why,  rightly  considered, 
to  be  a  human  being  at  all  is  quite  inordinately  bour 
geois!     And  it  is  very  notably  grocer -like  to  maintain 
a  grave  face  and  two  establishments,  to  chuckle  privily 
over  the  fragments  of   the   seventh    commandment,  to 
repent,  upon  detection,  and  afterward  —  ces  betes-la!  — 
to  drink  poison.     Ma  foi,  I  infinitely  prefer  the  domes 
tic  coffee!" 

The  Due  de  Puysange  laughed,  and  waved  aside  the 
crudities  of  life.  "All  vice  is  bourgeois,"  he  continued. 
"  It  is  sordid,  outworn,  vieux  jeu!  In  youth,  I  grant  you, 
the  sowing  of  a  few  wild  oats  is  as  natural  as  the  innate 
dislike  every  healthy  boy  entertains  toward  the  Holy 
Scriptures.  In  youth  it  is  the  unexpurgated  that  always 
happens.  But  at  my  age — misericorde! — the  men  yawn, 
and  les  demoiselles — bah!  les  demoiselles  have  the  souls 
of  accountants!  They  buy  and  sell,  as  my  grocer  does. 
Vice  is  no  longer  a  matter  of  splendid  crimes  and  sorrows 
and  kingdoms  lost;  it  is  a  matter  of  course." 

The  harsh  and  swarthy  face  relaxed.  With  a  little 
sigh  the  Due  de  Puysange  had  closed  his  fevered  eyes. 
There  were  a  multitude  of  tiny  lines  about  them,  and  of 
this  fact  he  was  obscurely  conscious,  in  a  wearied  fashion, 
when  he  again  looked  out  on  the  wellnigh  deserted  streets, 
now  troubled  by  a  hint  of  dawn.  Two  workmen  shambled 
by,  chatting  on  their  way  to  the  day's  business;  in  the 

243 


(Bailantrg 

attic  yonder  a  drunken  fellow  sang.  "Ah,  bouteille  ma 
mie,"  he  bellowed,  "pourquoi  vous  vuidez-vous?" 

De  Puysange  laughed.  "  I  suppose  I  have  no  con 
science,"  he  murmured,  "but  at  least,  I  can  lay  claim  to 
a  certain  fastidiousness.  I  am  very  wicked" — he  smiled, 
without  mirth  or  bitterness,  as  he  spoke — "  I  have  sinned 
notably  as  the  world  accounts  it;  indeed,  I  think,  my 
name  is  as  malodorous  as  that  of  any  man  living.  And 
I  am  tired — alas,  I  am  damnably  tired!  I  have  found 
the  seven  deadly  sins  deadly,  beyond  doubt,  but  only 
deadly  dull  and  deadly  commonplace.  I  yield  the  palm 
to  my  grocer,  and  withdraw  with  such  grace  as  I  may 
muster.  Let  us  now  return  to  the  temple  of  Respect 
ability,  and  take  to  heart  the  motto  written  above  the 
portal  of  her  shrine — 'Be  good  and  you  will  be  happy.' 
For  hers  is  the  true  creed,  and  she — O  dea  certe! — ranks 
the  mighty  ones  of  the  world  among  her  servitors.  Ash- 
taroth  and  Priapus  have  gone  into  trade,  and  their 
divinity  is  a  trifle  draggled." 

His  glance  caught  and  clung  for  a  moment  to  the 
paling  splendor  of  the  moon  that  hung  low  in  the  vacant, 
dove-colored  heavens.  A  faint  pang,  half-envy,  half- 
regret,  vexed  the  Duke  with  a  dull  twinge.  "0,  to  be 
clean!"  he  cried,  suddenly;  "to  have  done  with  these 
sordid,  pitiful  little  liaisons  and  sins! — to  have  done  once 
for  all  with  this  faded  pose  and  this  idle  making  of  phrases ! 
Eheu!  there  is  a  certain  proverb  concerning  pitch  so  cyn 
ical  that  I  suspect  it  of  being  truthful.  However — we 
shall  see." 

There  was  a  longer  silence.  De  Puysange  smiled  at 
some  unspoken  thought.  "The  most  beautiful  woman 
in  all  Paris  ?"  said  he.  "Ah,  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
all  the  world  is  this  grave,  silent  female  with  the  great 
eyes  that  are  as  cold  and  as  fathomless  and  as  bedazzling 

244 


f  part  of 

I  as  a  brace  of  sunlit  oceans!  And  how  cordially  she 
[  despises  me!  Ma  foi,  I  think  that  if  her  blood — which  is, 
beyond  doubt,  of  a  pale-pink  color — be  ever  stirred,  it  is 
with  loathing  of  her  husband.  To  make  her  love  me— 
as  I  mean  to  do — why,  Dieu  me  damne!  it  will  be  magnifi 
cent,  it  will  be  incredible !  Nay,  life  holds  many  surprises 
for  madame,  now  that  I  am  grown  uxorious.  We  will 
arrange  a  very  pleasant  comedy  of  belated  courtship; 
for  are  we  not  bidden  to  love  one  another?  So  be  it— 
I  am  henceforth  the  model  pere  de  famille,"  ended  the 
Duke,  as  the  fiacre  clattered  before  the  Hotel  de  Puysange. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  dull-eyed  lackey,  whom  he 
greeted  with  a  smile.  "Bon  jour,  Antoine!"  cried  the 
Duke ;  "  I  trust  that  your  wife  and  doubtless  very  charm 
ing  children  have  good  health?" 

"  Beyond  question,  monseigneur, "  the  man  answered, 
stolidly. 

"That  is  excellent  hearing,"  de  Puysange  said,  "and 
it  rejoices  me  to  be  reassured  of  their  welfare.  For  the 
happiness  of  others,  Antoine,  is  very  dear  to  the  heart 
of  a  father — and  of  a  husband."  The  Duke  chuckled 
seraphically  as  he  passed  down  the  hall.  The  man  stared 
after  him,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Rather  worse  than  usual,"  said  Antoine. 


II 

Next  morning  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange  received  a 
moderate  armful  of  frail,  strange-tinted  orchids,  with  a 
fair  copy  of  some  execrable  verses.  De  Puysange  spent 
the  afternoon  selecting  bonbons  and  wholesome  books — 
"for  his  fiancee,"  he  gravely  informed  the  shopman. 

At  the  Opera  he  never  left  her  box;  afterward,  at  the 

245 


(SaUanirg 

Comtesse  de  Haute ville's,  he  created  a  furor  by  sitting  out 
three  dances  in  the  conservatory  with  his  wife. 


Ill 

The  month  wore  on. 

"It  is  the  true  honeymoon,"  said  the  Duke. 

In  that  event  he  might  easily  have  found  a  quieter 
place  than  Paris  \vherein  to  spend  it.  Police  agents  had 
been  promised  of  late  a  premium  for  any  sturdy  beggar, 
whether  male  or  female,  they  could  secure  to  populate  the 
new  plantation  of  Louisiana,  and  as  the  premium  was 
large,  genteel  burgesses,  and  in  particular  the  children 
of  genteel  burgesses,  were  presently  disappearing  in  a 
fashion  their  families  found  annoying.  Now,  from  no 
where,  arose  and  spread  the  curious  rumor  that  King 
Louis,  somewhat  the  worse  for  his  diversions  in  the  Parc- 
aux-Cerfs,  daily  restored  his  vigor  by  bathing  in  the  blood 
of  young  children,  and  parents  of  the  absentees  began  to 
manifest  a  double  dissatisfaction,  for  the  deduction  was 
obvious. 

There  were  riots.  In  one  of  them  Madame  de  Pom 
padour  barely  escaped  with  her  life,1  and  the  King  himself, 
on  his  way  to  Compiegne,  was  turned  back  at  the  Porte 
St.  Antoine,  and  forced  to  make  a  detour  rather  than 
enter  his  own  capital.  After  this  affair  de  Puysange  went 
straight  to  his  brother-in-law. 

"Jean,"  said  he,  "for  a  newly  married  man  you  re 
ceive  too  much  company  by  far.  And  afterward  your 
visitors  talk  blasphemously  in  cabarets  and  shoot  the 
King's  musketeers.  I  would  appreciate  an  explanation." 

1  This  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  famous  ball  given  by  the  Pompa 
dour  in  honor  of  the  new  Duchess  of  Ormskirk. 

246 


nf 

Ormskirk  shrugged.  "Merely  a  makeshift,  Gaston. 
Merely  a  device  to  gain  time  wherein  England  may  pre 
pare  against  the  alliance  of  France  and  Austria.  Your 
secret  treaty  will  never  be  signed  as  long  as  Paris  is  given 
over  to  rioters.  Nay,  the  Empress  may  well  hesitate  to 
ally  herself  with  a  king  who  thus  clamantly  cannot  govern 
even  his  own  realm.  And  meanwhile  England  will  pre 
pare  herself." 

"  Yes,"  de  Puysange  assented ; — "  yet  you  err  in  sending 
Cumberland  to  defend  Hanover.  You  will  need  a  better 
man  there." 

Ormskirk  slapped  his  thigh.  "  So  you  intercepted  that 
last  despatch,  after  all!  And  I  could  have  sworn  Candale 
was  trustworthy!" 

"My  adored  Jean,"  replied  de  Puysange,  "he  has  been 
in  my  pay  for  six  months!  Is  it  war,  then?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ormskirk,  "of  course  it  is  war. 
And  we  will  manage  it  very  badly,  I  dare  say,  since  we  are 
each  of  us  just  now  besotted  with  adoration  of  our  wives." 

"At  times,"  said  de  Puysange,  with  dignity,  "your 
galimatias  are  insufferable.  Now  let  us  talk  like  reason 
able  beings.  In  regard  to  Pomerania,  you  will  readily 
understand  that  the  interests  of  his  Majesty — " 


IV 

Still  the  suggestion  haunted  him.  It  would  be  a 
nuance  too  ridiculous,  of  course,  to  care  seriously  for  one's 
wife,  and  yet  Helene  de  Puysange  was  undeniably  a 
beautiful  woman.  As  they  sat  over  the  remains  of  their 
dinner — a  deux,  by  the  Duke's  request — she  seemed  to 
her  husband  quite  incredibly  beautiful.  She  exhaled  the 
effects  of  a  water-color  in  discreet  and  delicate  tinctures. 

247 


(Sallanirg 

Lithe  and  fine  and  proud  she  was  to  the  merest  glance ; 
yet  patience,  a  thought  conscious  of  itself,  beaconed  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  appeared,  but  with  urbanity,  to  regard 
life  as,  upon  the  whole,  a  countrified  performance.  De 
Puysange  liked  that  air;  he  liked  the  reticence  of  every 
glance  and  speech  and  gesture — -liked,  above  all,  the  thin- 
nish  oval  of  her  face  and  the  staid  splendor  of  her  hair. 
Here  was  no  vulgar  yellow,  no  crass  and  hackneyed  gold 
.  .  .  and  yet  there  was  a  clarified  and  gauzier  shade  of 
either  .  .  .  the  color  of  the  moon  by  daylight,  say.  .  .  . 
Then,  as  the  pleasures  of  digestion  lapsed  gently  into  the 
initial  amenities  of  sleep,  she  spoke. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  "will  you  be  pleased  to  tell  me 
the  meaning  of  this  comedy?" 

"Madame,"  de  Puysange  answered,  and  raised  his 
gloomy  eyebrows,  "I  do  not  entirely  comprehend." 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "believe  me,  I  do  not  undervalue  your 
perception.  I  have  always  esteemed  your  cleverness, 
monsieur,  however  much" — she  paused  for  a  moment,  a 
fluctuating  smile  upon  her  lips — "however  much  I  may 
have  regretted  its  manifestations.  I  am  not  clever,  and 
to  me  cleverness  has  always  seemed  to  be  an  infinite 
incapacity  for  hard  work;  its  results  are  usually  a  few 
sonnets,  an  undesirable  wife,  and  a  warning  for  one's  ac 
quaintances.  In  your  case  it  is,  of  course,  different,  since 
the  weight  of  a  great  name  stifles  stupidity  and  cleverness 
without  any  partiality.  With  you  cleverness  has  taken 
the  form  of  a  tendency  to  intoxication,  amours,  and — 
amiability.  I  have  acquiesced  in  this.  But,  for  the  past 
month — ' ' 

"The  happiest  period  of  my  life!"  breathed  the  Duke. 

—you  have  been  pleased  to  present  me  with  flowers, 

bonbons,    jewels,    and   what   not.     You   have   actually 

accorded  your  wife  the  courtesies  you  usually  preserve 

248 


of  (Snlb 

for  the  ladies  of  the  ballet.     You  have  dogged  my  foot 
steps.     You  have  talked  to  me  as — as— 

"Much  as  the  others  do?"  de  Puysange  queried,  help 
fully.  "Pardon  me,  madame,  but,  in  a  husband,  I  had 
thought  this  very  routine  might  savor  of  originality." 

The  Duchess  flushed.  "God  knows,  monsieur,"  she 
cried,  "that  in  your  estimation  what  men  have  said  to 
me,  or  I  to  them,  has  been  for  fifteen  years  a  matter  of 
little  moment !  It  is  not  due  to  you  that  I  am  still — 

"A  pearl,"  finished  the  Duke,  gallantly — then  touched 
himself  upon  the  chest — "cast  before  swine,"  he  sighed. 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "Yes,  cast  before  swine!"  she 
cried,  with  a  quick  lift  of  speech.  She  seemed  very  tall 
as  she  stood  tapping  her  fingers  upon  the  table,  irresolute 
ly;  but  after  an  instant  she  laughed  and  spread  out  her 
fine  hands  in  an  impotent  gesture.  "Ah,  monsieur,"  she 
said,  "my  father  entrusted  to  your  keeping  a  clean- 
minded  girl!  What  have  you  made  of  her,  Gaston?" 

The  question  was  an  awkward  one,  and  yet  a  great  and 
strange  and  profoundly  unreasonable  happiness  swept 
through  the  Duke's  soul  as  she  spoke  his  given  name  for 
the  first  time  within  his  memory.  Surely,  the  deep  con 
tralto  voice  had  lingered  over  it  ? — half -tenderly,  half -ca 
ressingly,  one  might  think.  "It  is  an  old,  old  saying,"  he 
suggested,  "that  a  woman  dies  when  a  woman  marries." 

"Some  of  them  are  not  so  fortunate,"  said  she. 

"Ma  foi,"  de  Puysange  retorted,  "if  women  continue 
to  intermarry  with  such  beasts  as  men,  what  better  can 
they  expect?"  He  glanced  upward  for  a  reply,  and  his 
glance  lingered  idly,  then  curiously,  then  almost  hungrily. 
The  Duke  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  caught  his  wife  by  either 
wrist.  "What  have  I  done  with  her?"  he  cried,  in  a 
shaking  voice.  "What  have  I  done  with  her?  Before 
God,  Helene,  I  think  that  I  have  given  her  my  heart!" 

249 


(gallatttrg 

Her  face  flushed.  "  Mountebank!"  she  cried,  and  strug 
gled  to  free  herself;  "do  you  mistake  me,  then,  for  a 
raddle-faced  actress  in  a  barn  ?  Ah,  les  demoiselles  have 
formed  you,  monsieur — they  have  formed  you  well!" 

"  Pardon!"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  faint  click  of  the  teeth. 
He  released  her  hands,  and  swept  back  his  hair  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  He  turned  from  his  wife,  and 
strolled  toward  a  window,  where,  for  a  little,  he  tapped 
upon  the  pane,  his  murky  countenance  twitching  oddly, 
and  stared  into  the  quiet  and  sunlit  street.  "Madame," 
he  began,  in  a  level  voice,  "I  will  tell  you  the  meaning 
of  the  comedy.  To  me — always,  as  you  know,  a  creature 
of  whims — there  came,  a  month  ago,  a  new  whim  which 
I  thought  attractive,  unconventional,  promising.  It  was 
to  make  love  to  my  own  wife  rather  than  to  another 
man's.  Ah,  I  grant  you,  it  is  incredible,"  he  cried,  when 
the  Duchess  raised  her  hand  as  though  to  speak — "in 
credible,  fantastic,  and  ungentlemanly !  So  be  it;  never 
theless,  I  have  played  out  my  role.  I  have  been  the 
model  husband;  I  have  put  away  wine  and — les  demoi 
selles;  for  it  pleased  me,  in  my  petty  insolence,  to  pat 
ronize,  rather  than  to  defy,  the  laws  of  God  and  man. 
Your  perfection  irritated  me,  madame;  it  pleased  me  to 
demonstrate  how  easy  is  this  trick  of  treating  the  world 
as  the  antechamber  of  a  future  existence.  It  pleased  me 
to  have  in  my  life  one  space,  however  short,  over  which 
neither  the  Recording  Angel  nor  even  you  might  draw  a 
long  countenance.  It  pleased  me,  in  effect,  to  play  out 
the  comedy,  smug-faced  and  immaculate — for  the  time. 
I  concede  that  I  have  failed  in  my  part.  Hiss  me  from 
the  stage,  madame;  add  one  more  insult  to  the  already 
considerable  list  of  those  affronts  which  I  have  put  upon 
you;  for  one  more  will  scarcely  matter.  It  is  but  an  ill- 
planned,  ill-acted  comedy  gone  wrong,  madame — only  a 

250 


comedy.  And  yet,"  cried  the  Due  de  Puysange,  in  a 
puzzled  voice,  "I  do  not  know — I  do  not  know — !" 

She  faced  him  with  set  lips.  "So,  monsieur,"  said  she, 
and  slowly,  "  your  boasted  comedy  amounts  only  to  this  ?" 

"I  do  not  know — I  do  not  know,"  he  repeated,  dully. 
"I  think  that,  perhaps,  the  swine,  wallowing  in  the  mire 
they  have  neither  strength  nor  will  to  leave,  may  yet,  at 
times,  long — and  long  whole-heartedly — •"  De  Puysange 
snapped  his  fingers.  "Peste!"  said  he,  "let  us  now  have 
done  with  this  dreary  comedy !  Beyond  doubt  de  Soyecourt 
has  much  to  answer  for  in  those  idle  words  which  were  its 
germ.  Let  us  hiss  both  collaborators,  madame." 

"De  Soyecourt!"  she  cried,  with  a  little  start.  "Was 
it  he  who  prompted  you  to  make  love — to  me?" 

"Without  intention,"  pleaded  the  Duke.  "Nay,  I  do 
not  question  his  finest  sensibilities  would  be  outraged  by 
our  disastrous  revival  of  Philemon  and  Baucis." 

"Ah — !"  said  she;  then  smiled  at  some  reflection. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  The  Due  de  Puysange 
drummed  upon  the  window-pane ;  the  Duchess,  still  faintly 
smiling,  trifled  with  the  thin  gold  chain  that  hung  about 
her  neck.  Both  felt  their  display  of  emotion  to  have 
been  somewhat  unmodern,  not  entirely  a  la  mode. 

"Decidedly,"  spoke  de  Puysange,  and  turned  toward 
her  with  a  slight  grimace,  "  I  am  no  longer  fit  to  play  the 
lover;  yet  a  little  while,  madame,  and  you  must  stir  my 
gruel-posset,  and  arrange  the  pillows  more  comfortably 
about  the  octogenarian." 

"Ah,  Gaston,"  she  answered,  and  in  protest  raised  her 
slender  fingers,  "let  us  have  no  more  heroics.  We  are 
not  fitted  for  them,  you  and  I.  ' 

"So  it  would  appear,"  the  Due  de  Puysange  conceded, 
yet  not  without  sulkiness. 

"Let  us  be  friends,"  she  pleaded.     "Remember,  it  was 

251 


fifteen  years  ago  I  made  the  great  mistake  of  marrying  a 
very  charming  man — " 

"Merci!"  cried  the  Duke. 

" — and  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  thereby  denying 
myself  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  I  have  learned 
too  late  that  marrying  a  man  is  only  the  most  civil  way  of 
striking  him  from  one's  visiting-list."  The  Duchess  hesi 
tated  and  smiled.  "  Frankly,  Gaston,  I  do  not  regret  the 
past  month." 

"It  has  been  adorable!"  sighed  the  Duke. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted;  "except  those  awkward  moments 
when  you  would  insist  on  making  love  to  me." 

"But  no,  madame,"  cried  he,  "it  was  precisely — " 

"O,  my  husband,  my  husband!"  she  interrupted,  with 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders;  "why,  you  do  it  so  badly!" 

The  Due  de  Puysange  took  a  short  turn  about  the 
apartment,  then  whistled  softly.  "And  I  married  you," 
said  he,  "at  sixteen — out  of  a  convent!" 

"Mon  ami,"  she  murmured,  in  apology,  "am  I  not  to 
be  frank  with  you  ?  Would  you  have  only  the  connubial 
confidences?" 

"  But  I  had  no  idea —  "  he  began. 

"Why,  Gaston,  it  bored  me  to  the  very  verge  of  yawn 
ing  in  my  lover's  countenance.  I,  too,  had  no  idea  but 
that  it  would  bore  you  equally—- 

"Hein?"  said  the  Duke, 
—to  hear  what  d'Humieres — 

"He  squints!"  cried  the  Due  de  Puysange. 

"—or  de  Crequy— " 

"That  red-haired  ape!"  he  muttered. 

— or  d'Arlanges,  or — or  any  of  them,  were  pleased  to 
say.  In  fact,  it  was  my  duty  to  conceal  from  my  hus 
band  anything  which  might  pain  him.  Now  that  we  are 
friends,  of  course  it  is  entirely  different." 

252 


of   (Solh 

The  Duchess  smiled;  the  Duke  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  with  the  contained  ferocity  of  a  caged  tiger. 

"Ma  foi,"  said  he,  at  length,  " friendship  is  a  good 
oculist!  Already  my  vision  improves." 

"Gaston!"  she  cried.  The  Duchess  rose  and  laid  both 
hands  upon  his  shoulders.  "  Gaston — ?"  she  repeated, 
with  an  earnest  countenance. 

For  a  heart-beat  the  Due  de  Puysange  looked  into  his 
wife's  eyes;  then  he  sadly  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
"Madame,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  do  not  doubt  you.  Ah, 
believe  me,  I  have  realized,  always,  that  in  your  keep 
ing  my  honor  was  quite  safe — far  more  safe  than  in  mine, 
God  knows!  You  have  been  a  true  and  faithful  wife  to  a 
worthless  brute  who  has  not  deserved  it,"  he  murmured, 
and  lifted  her  fingers  to  his  lips.  De  Puysange  stood 
very  erect;  his  heels  clicked  together,  and  his  voice  was 
earnest.  "I  thank  you,  madame,  and  I  pray  you  to 
believe  that  I  have  never  doubted  you.  You  are  too 
perfect  to  err — frankly,  and  between  friends,"  added  the 
Duke,  "it  was  your  very  perfection  which  frightened  me. 
You  are  an  icicle,  Helene." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Ah!"  she  said,  and 
sighed;  "you  think  so?" 

"Once,  then — ?"  The  Due  de  Puysange  seated  him 
self  beside  his  wife,  and  took  her  hand. 

"I — it  was  nothing."  Her  lashes  fell,  and  a  dull  color 
flushed  through  her  countenance. 

"Between  friends,"  the  Duke  suggested,  "there  should 
be  no  reservations." 

"But  it  is  such  a  pitifully  inartistic  little  story!"  the 
Duchess  protested.  "Eh  bien,  if  you  must  have  it! 
I  was  a  girl  once,  you  know,  Gaston — an  innocent  girl, 
given,  as  most  girls  are,  to  long  reveries  and  bright,  callow 
day-dreams.  There  was  a  man — 

253 


(Sallanirg 

"There  always  is,"  said  the  Duke,  darkly. 

"Why,  he  never  even  knew,  nion  ami!"  cried  his  wife, 
and  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands.  "He  was  much 
older  than  I;  there  were  stories  about  him  —  O,  a  great 
many  stories — and  one  hears  even  in  a  convent — "  She 
paused,  and  gave  a  reminiscent  smile  pregnant  with  mean 
ing.  *  *  And  I  used  to  wonder  shyly  what  this  very  wicked 
man  might  be  like.  I  thought  of  him  with  de  Lauzun, 
ancl  Dom  Juan,  and  with  the  Due  de  Grammont,  and  all 
those  other  scented,  shimmering,  magnificent  libertines 
over  whom  les  ingenues — wonder;  only,  I  thought  of  him 
more  often  than  the  others,  and  I  made  little  prayers  for 
him  to  the  Virgin.  And  I  procured  a  tiny  miniature  of 
him.  And,  when  I  came  out  of  the  convent,  I  met  him 
at  my  father's  house.1  And  that  was  all." 

"All?"  The  Due  de  Puysange  had  raised  his  swart 
eyebrows,  and  he  slightly  smiled. 

"All,"  she  re-echoed,  firmly.  "O,  I  assure  you  he  was 
still  too  youthful  to  have  any  time  to  devote  to  young 
girls.  He  was  courteous  —  no  more.  But  I  kept  the 
picture — ah,  girls  are  so  foolish,  Gaston!"  The  Duchess, 
with  a  light  laugh,  drew  upward  the  thin  chain  about  her 
neck.  At  its  end  was  a  little  heart-shaped  locket  of  dull 
gold,  with  a  diamond  sunk  deep  in  either  side.  She  held 
it  close,  for  a  moment,  in  her  pink- tipped  hand.  "It 
has  been  sealed  in  here,"  said  she,  "ever  since — since 
some  one  gave  me  the  locket." 

With  a  gasp  the  Due  de  Puysange  caught  at  the  trinket, 
still  tepid  and  perfumed  from  its  late  contact  with  her 
flesh.  He  turned  it  awkwardly  in  his  hand,  his  eyes 
flashing  volumes  of  wonderment  and  inquiry.  Yet  he 

'She  was  the  daughter  of  d'Agenois,  the  first  and  very  politic  lover 
of  Madame  de  la  Tournelle,  afterward  mistress  to  Louis  Quinze  under 
the  title  of  Duchesse  de  Chateauroux. 

254 


IJjrart   of 

did  not  appear  jealous;  no,  nor  excessively  unhappy. 
"And  never,"  he  demanded,  some  vital  emotion  catching 
at  his  voice — "never  since  then — ?" 

"I  never,  of  course,  approved  of  him,"  she  answered; 
and  at  this  point  de  Puysange  noted,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  existence,  the  curve  of  her  trailing  lashes.  It  looked 
so  unusual  that  he  drew  nearer  to  observe  more  at  his 
ease.  "Still — I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you — still,  with 
out  him  the  world  was  more  quiet,  less  colorful;  it  held, 
appreciably,  less  to  catch  the  eye  and  ear.  Eh,  he  had 
an  air,  Gas  ton ;  he  was  never  an  admirable  man,  but,  some 
how,  he  was  invariably  the  centre  of  the  picture." 

"And  you  have  al way s— al ways — ?"  cried  the  Duke, 
drawing  nearer  and  yet  more  near  to  her. 

"Other  men,"  she  murmured,  "seem  futile  and  of  quite 
minor  importance,  after  him."  The  lashes  lifted,  though 
with  a  visible  effort.  They  fell,  promptly.  "So,  I  have 
always  kept  the  heart,  mon  ami.  And,  yes,  I  have  al 
ways  loved  him,  I  suppose." 

The  chain — the  trivial  link  that  bound  them  mockingly 
together,  after  the  attrition  of  so  many  stronger  ties- 
had  moved  and  quivered  in  his  hand.  Was  it  man  or 
woman  who  trembled?  wondered  the  Due  de  Puysange. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  immovable,  every  nerve  in  his 
body  tense ;  and  he  knew  the  air  about  them  to  be  vibrant 
and  heavy  with  some  strange  and  nameless  force.  Surely, 
though,  it  was  she  who  trembled?  Surely,  this  woman, 
whose  cold  perfection  had  galled  him  so  long,  now  stood 
with  downcast  eyes,  and  blushed  and  trembled,  too,  like 
any  rustic  maiden  come  shamefaced  to  her  first  tryst? 
Surely,  it  was  he,  the  fifth  Due  de  Puysange,  whose  dry 
lips  moved  and  crushed  each  other,  and  made  no  sound  ? 
And  surely,  without,  all  Paris  laughed  and  worked  and 
died,  as  it  had  done  yesterday  ?  Then,  with  a  blinding 
17  255 


(Sailantrg 

splendor,  came  the  knowledge  that,  for  him,  yesterday 
and  the  life  of  yesterday  and  the  man  who  had  lived  it 
were  vanished,  never  to  return. 

"Helene— !"  he  cried. 

"But  no,  my  story  is  too  dull,"  she  protested,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  disengaged  herself  —  half- 
fearfully,  it  seemed  to  her  husband.  "  Even  more  insipid 
than  your  comedy,"  she  added,  with  a  provoking  smile. 
"Do  we  drive  this  afternoon?" 

"In  effect,  yes!"  cried  the  Duke.  He  paused  and 
laughed — a  low,  gentle  laugh,  pulsing  with  an  unutterable 
content  he  had  not  known  for  years.  "Since  this  after 
noon,  madame — " 

"Is  cloudless?"  she  queried. 

"Nay,  far  more  than  that,"  de  Puysange  amended; 
"it  is  refulgent." 


What  time  the  Duchess  prepared  her  person  for  the 
drive  the  Duke  walked  in  the  quaint  garden  of  the  Hotel 
de  Puysange  in  gleeful  wise.  Up  and  down  a  shady 
avenue  of  lime-trees  he  paced,  and  chuckled  to  himself, 
and  smiled  benignantly  upon  the  moss-incrusted  statues 
— a  proceeding  that  was,  beyond  any  reasonable  doubt, 
prompted  by  his  own  great  happiness  rather  than  by  the 
artistic  merits  of  the  postured  images,  since  they  con 
stituted  a  formidable  and  broken-nosed  collection  of  the 
most  cumbrous,  the  most  incredible,  and  the  most  hideous 
instances  of  sculpture  the  family  of  Puysange  had  been 
able  to  accumulate  for  love  or  money,  as  the  phrase  is. 
And  amid  these  mute,  gray  travesties  of  antiquity  and 
the  tastes  of  his  ancestors,  the  last  Due  de  Puysange 
laughed  and  soliloquized. 

256 


nf  (inlln 

"Ma  foi,"  said  he,  "will  life  never  learn  to  improve 
upon  the  extravagancies  of  romance  ?  Why,  it  is  the  old 
story — the  hackneyed  story  of  the  husband  and  wife  who 
fall  in  love  with  each  other !  Life  is  a  very  gross  plagiarist. 
And  she — did  she  think  I  had  forgotten  when  I  gave  her 
that  little  locket  so  long  ago?  Eh,  ma  femme,  so  'some 
one'-  -'some  one'  who  cannot  be  alluded  to  without  a 
pause  and  an  adorable  flush — presented  you  with  your 
locket!  Nay,  love  is  not  always  blind!" 

The  Duke  paused  before  a  puff- jawed  Triton,  who 
wallowed  in  an  arid  basin  and  uplifted  toward  heaven 
what  an  indulgent  observer  might  construe  as  a  broken 
conch-shell.  "Love!"  cried  the  Duke.  "Mon  Dieu,  how 
are  the  superior  fallen!  I  have  not  the  decency  to  conceal 
even  from  myself  that  I  love  my  wife!  I  am  shameless, 
I  had  as  lief  proclaim  it  from  the  house-tops.  And  a 
month  ago — tarare,  the  ignorant  beast  I  was !  Moreover, 
at  that  time  I  had  not  passed  a  month  in  her  company— 
eh  bien,  I  defy  Diogenes  and  Timon  to  come  through  such 
a  testing  with  unscratched  hearts.  I  love  her.  And  she 
loves  me!"  His  voice  had  sunk  into  incredulous  wonder. 
Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  lifted  his  comely  hands 
toward  the  pale  spring  sky,  where  the  west  wind  was 
shepherding  a  sluggish  flock  of  clouds.  "O  sun,  moon, 
and  stars!"  de  Puysange  cried,  with  a  tremor  of  speech t 
''I  call  you  to  witness  that  she  loves  me!  Always  she 
has  loved  me!  O  kindly  little  universe!  O  little  kings, 
tricked  out  with  garish  crowns  and  sceptres,  you  are 
masters  of  your  petty  kingdoms,  but  I  am  master  of  her 
heart!  for  she  loves  me!" 

"I  do  not  deserve  it,"  he  conceded,  to  a  dilapidated 
faun,  who,  though  his  flute  and  the  hands  that  held  it  had 
been  missing  for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century,  piped  on 
with  unimpaired  and  fatuous  mirth.  "Ah,  heart  of  gold 

257 


— ah,  heart  of  gold,  I  have  not  merited  that  you  should 
hold  my  likeness  all  these  years!  If  I  had  my  deserts — 
parbleu!  let  us  accept  such  benefits  as  the  gods  provide, 
and  not  question  the  wisdom  of  their  dispensations.  Thus 
may  many  of  us  escape  hanging." 

The  Duke  came  to  an  armless  Cupid,  who  brooded, 
misanthropically,  in  a  damp  temple  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  avenue.  "If  she  had  not  loved  me?"  he  queried  of 
the  unsympathetic  deity ;  then  shuddered  a  little.  "  Nay, 
I  am  afraid  to  think  of  that!  If  she  did  not — if  she  did 
not — why,  I  could  not  live!"  cried  the  Duke. 

"  But  she  loves  me!"  he  repeated,  over  and  over  again, 
as  he  sought  the  hotel  with  a  quick  tread — "me,  all  un 
worthy  as  I  am! 

"O  heart  of  gold!"  he  said,  with  ineffable  tenderness, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  paused.  "Ah,  my  dear, 
my  dear!  the  long  years  I  have  wasted!"  The  wicked 
Due  de  Puysange  raised  his  dreary  eyes  toward  the 
proteges  of  the  west  wind,  and  spoke  as  simply  as  any 
village  lad.  "I  will  make  recompense,"  said  he.  "O 
Father  of  us  all,  aid  me  to  make  recompense!" 


VI 

"  So  madame  has  visitors  ?  Eh  bien,  let  us,  then,  be 
hold  these  naughty  visitors,  who  would  sever  a  husband 
from  his  wife!" 

From  within  the  Red  Salon  came  a  murmur  of  speech — 
quiet,  cordial,  colorless — which  showed  very  plainly  that 
madame  had  visitors.  As  the  Due  de  Puysange  reached 
out  his  hand  to  draw  aside  the  portieres,  her  voice  was 
speaking,  courteously,  but  without  vital  interest. 

" — and  afterward,"  said  she,  "weather  permitting — " 

258 


"Ah,  Helene!"  cried  a  voice  that  the  Duke  knew  almost 
as  well,  "how  long  am  I  to  be  held  at  arm's-length  by 
these  petty  conventionalities?  Is  candor  never  to  be 
permitted?" 

The  half -drawn  portiere  trembled  in  the  Duke's  grasp. 
He  could  see,  from  where  he  stood,  the  inmates  of  the 
salon,  though  their  backs  were  turned.  They  were  his 
wife  and  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt — de  Soyecourt,  the 
companion  of  his  youth,  the  friend  of  his  manhood,  his 
copartner  in  many  mad  escapades,  and  the  owner  of  a 
name  scarcely  less  scandal-tainted  than  his  own.  The 
Marquis  bent  eagerly  toward  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange, 
who  had  risen  as  he  spoke. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  motionless  as  her  perplexed 
husband;  then,  with  a  wearied  sigh,  the  Duchess  sank 
back  into  a  fauteuil.  "  You  are  at  liberty  to  speak,"  she 
said,  slowly,  and  with  averted  glance — "  what  you  choose." 

The  portiere  fell;  but  between  its  folds  the  Duke  still 
peered  into  the  room,  where  de  Soyecourt  had  drawn 
nearer  to  the  Duke's  wife.  "  There  is  so  little  to  say,"  the 
Marquis  murmured,  "beyond  what  my  eyes  have  surely 
revealed  ere  this — that  I  love  you." 

"Ah!"  the  Duchess  cried,  with  a  swift  in  taking  of  the 
breath  which  was  almost  a  sob.  "  Monsieur,  I  think  you 
forget  that  you  are  speaking  to  the  wife  of  your  friend." 

The  Marquis  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  which  was 
theatrical,  though  the  trouble  that  wrung  his  countenance 
was  very  real.  He  was,  as  one  has  said,  a  slight,  fair  man, 
with  the  face  of  an  ecclesiastic  and  the  eyes  of  an  aging 
seraph.  A  dull  pang  shot  through  the  Duke  as  he  thought 
of  the  two  years'  difference  in  their  ages,  and  of  his  own 
tendency  to  embonpoint,  and  of  the  dismal  features  which 
calumniated  him.  Yonder  porcelain  fellow  was  in  ap 
pearance  so  incredibly  young! 

259 


(gallantry 

"Do  you  consider,"  said  the  Marquis,  "that  I  do  not 
know  I  act  an  abominable  part  ?  Honor,  friendship  and 
even  decency!  —  ah,  I  regret  their  sacrifice,  but  love  is 
greater  than  these  petty  things!" 

The  Duchess  sighed.  "For  my  part,"  she  returned,  "I 
think  differently.  Love  is,  doubtless,  very  wonderful 
and  beautiful,  but  I  am  sufficiently  old-fashioned  to  hold 
honor  yet  dearer.  Even — even  if  I  loved  you,  monsieur, 
there  are  certain  words,  sworn  before  the  altar,  that  I 
could  not  forget."  She  looked  up,  candidly,  as  she  spoke, 
into  the  flushed,  handsome  face  of  the  Marquis. 

"Words!"  he  cried,  and  with  a  vexed  impatiency. 

"An  oath,"  she  answered,  sadly — "an  oath  that  I  may 
not  break." 

There  was  hunger  in  the  Marquis's  eyes,  and  his  hands 
lifted.  Their  glances  met  for  a  breathless  moment,  and 
his  eyes  were  tender,  and  her  eyes  were  resolute,  but  very, 
very  compassionate. 

"  I  love  you!"  he  said.  And  he  said  no  more  than  this, 
because  the  truth  of  it  was  gruesome. 

"  Monsieur,"  the  Duchess  replied,  and  the  depths  of  her 
great  contralto  voice  were  shaken  like  the  sobbing  of  a 
violin,  and  her  hands  stole  upward  to  her  bosom,  and 
clasped  the  gold  heart,  as  sine  spoke — "monsieur,  ever 
since  I  first  knew  you,  many  years  ago,  at  my  father's 
home,  I  have  held  you  as  my  friend.  You  were  more 
kind  to  the  girl,  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  than  you  have 
been  to  the  woman.  Yet  only  since  our  stay  in  Poictesme 
yonder  have  I  feared — this.  I  have  tried  to  prevent 
it,  for  your  friendship  was  very  dear  to  me.  I  have 
failed."  With  a  sob  the  Duchess  lifted  the  gold  heart 
to  her  lips,  and  her  golden  head  bent  over  it.  "  Monsieur, " 
she  cried,  in  a  stifled  voice,  "before  God,  if  I  had  loved 
you  with  my  whole  being — if  I  had  loved  you  all  these 

260 


feart  at  (gold 

years — if  the  sight  of  your  face  were  to  me  to-day  the  one 
good  thing  life  holds,  and  the  mere  sound  of  your  voice 
had  power  to  set  my  heart  to  beating — beating" — she 
paused  for  a  little,  and  then  rose,  with  a  sharp  breath  that 
shook  her  slender  body  visibly — "even  then,  my  Louis, 
the  answer  would  be  the  same,  and  that  is — go!" 

"  Helene — !"  he  murmured,  and  his  outstretched  hands, 
which  trembled,  groped  toward  her. 

"Let  us  have  no  misunderstanding,"  she  protested, 
more  composedly;  "you  have  my  answer." 

The  Marquis  de  Soyecourt  had  not  led  a  clean  life ;  and 
his  past  embodied  many  and  diverse  transactions  of  which 
even  he  had  the  grace  to  be  ashamed.  But  by  the  great 
passion  that  now  possessed  him  the  tiny  man  was  purified 
and  transfigured  past  masculinity.  His  face  was  ascetic 
in  its  reverence  as  he  stood,  head  slightly  bowed,  and  with 
the  wonder  of  her  flawless  beauty  surging  over  his  heart 
like  a  flood.  "I  go,"  he  said,  picking  his  way  carefully 
among  tumbling  words;  then  bent  over  her  hand,  which 
she  made  no  effort  to  withdraw.  "Ah,  my  dear!"  cried 
the  Marquis,  staring  without  shame  into  her  shy,  uplifted 
eyes,  "  I  think  I  might  have  made  you  happy!" 

His  arm  brushed  the  elbow  of  the  Duke  as  de  Soyecourt 
left  the  salon.  Neither  was  aware  of  the  fact ;  the  blind, 
sick  misery  of  neither  would  have  been  disturbed  by  any 
thing  less  noticeable  than  an  earthquake. 


VII 

"'If  I  had  loved  you  all  these  years,'"  murmured  the 
Due  de  Puysange.  His  dull  gaze  wandered  toward  the 
admirable  "  Herodias"  of  Giorgione  that  hung  beside  him; 
the  strained  face  of  the  woman,  the  accented  muscles  of 

261 


(gallantry 

her  arms,  the  purple,  bellying  cloak  which  spread  behind 
her,  the  livid  countenance  of  the  dead  man  staring  up 
from  the  salver — all  these  he  noted,  idly.  He  loathed 
that  wonderful  picture  until  his  final  day. 

"  I  will  make  recompense,"  said  the  Duke.     "  Dear  God 
in  heaven,  aid  me  to  make  recompense!" 


VIII 

He  came  into  the  room,  humming  a  tune  of  the  boule 
vards  ;  the  crimson  hangings  swirled  about  him,  and  the 
furniture  swayed  in  many  aerial  and  thin-legged  minuets. 
He  sank  into  a  chair  before  the  great  mirror,  supported 
by  frail  love-gods,  who  contended  for  its  possession.  He 
viewed  therein  his  pale  and  grotesque  reflection,  and 
he  laughed  lightly.  "Pardon,  madame,"  he  said,  "but 
my  castles  in  the  air  are  tumbling  noisily  about  my  ears. 
It  is  difficult  to  think  clearly  amid  the  crashing  of  the 
battlements. ' ' 

"I  do  not  understand."  The  Duchess  had  lifted  an 
incurious  face  as  he  entered  the  salon.  She  was  all  in 
gray,  and  a  broad,  low  hat  of  gray  felt  spread  about  the 
hair  which  had  snared  the  sunlight  in  its  tendrils. 

"  My  life,"  laughed  the  Due  de  Puysange,  "  I  assure  you 
I  am  quite  incorrigible.  I  have  just  committed  another 
dishonorable  action;  and  I  cry  peccavil"  He  smote  him 
self  upon  the  breast,  and  sighed  portentously.  "  I  accuse 
myself  of  eavesdropping." 

"What  is  your  meaning?"     She  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

"  Nay,  but  I  am  requited,"  the  Duke  reassured  her,  and 
laughed  with  discreetly  tempered  bitterness.  "  Figure  to 
yourself,  madame!  I  had  planned  for  us  a  life  during 
which  our  untried  friendship  was  always  to  endure  un- 

262 


nf  <Snii)i 

tarnished.  Eh  bien,  man  proposes!  De  Soyecourt  is  of 
a  jealous  disposition;  and  here  I  sit,  amid  my  fallen  air- 
castles,  like  that  tiresome  Marius  in  his  Carthaginian 
debris." 

"De  Soyecourt?"  she  echoed,  dully. 

"Ah,  my  poor  child!"  said  the  Duke,  and,  rising,  took 
her  hand  in  a  paternal  fashion,  "did  you  think  that,  at 
this  late  day,  the  state  of  matrimony  was  still  an  incur 
able  one?  Nay,  we  progress,  madame.  You  shall  have 
grounds  for  a  separation  —  sufficient,  unimpeachable 
grounds.  You  shall  have  your  choice  of  desertion,  in 
fidelity,  cruelty  in  the  presence  of  witnesses — O,  I  shall 
prove  a  veritable  Gilles  de  Retz!"  He  laughed,  not  un 
kindly,  at  her  bewilderment. 

"  You  heard  everything?"  she  queried. 

"I  have  already  confessed,"  the  Duke  reminded  her. 
"  And  speaking  as  an  unprejudiced  observer,  I  would  say 
the  little  man  really  loves  you.  So  be  it !  You  shall  have 
your  separation,  you  shall  marry  him.  Behold  a  fact 
accomplished!"  De  Puysange  snapped  his  fingers  and 
made  a  pirouette ;  then,  with  mocking  emphasis,  he  began 
to  hum,  "Songez  de  bonne  a  suivre — " 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"You,  in  truth,  desire  to  restore  to  me  my  freedom?" 
she  asked,  in  wonder,  and  drew  near  to  him. 

The  Due  de  Puysange  seated  himself,  with  a  smile. 
"Mon  Dieu!"  he  protested,  "who  am  I  to  keep  lovers 
apart?  As  the  first  proof  of  our  new-sworn  friendship, 
I  hereby  offer  you  any  form  of  abuse  or  of  maltreatment 
you  may  select." 

Very  timidly  she  drew  yet  nearer  to  him.  Afterward, 
with  a  sigh  of  happiness,  her  arms  clasped  about  his  neck. 
"  Mountebank!"  she  murmured,  and  her  voice  was  a  caress 
to  the  ear,  "do  you,  then,  love  me  very  much?" 

263 


(SaUantrg 

"I?"  The  Duke  raised  his  eyebrows.  Yet,  he  reflect 
ed,  there  was  really  no  great  harm  in  drawing  his  cheek 
a  trifle  closer  to  hers,  and  he  found  the  contact  to  be  that 
of  cool  velvet. 

"You  love  me!"  she  insisted,  softly. 

"It  pains  me  to  the  heart,"  the  Duke  apologized — 
"  it  pains  me,  pith  and  core,  to  be  guilty  of  this  rudeness 
to  a  lady ;  but,  after  all,  honesty  is  a  proverbially  recom 
mended  virtue,  and  so  I  must  unblushingly  admit  I  do 
nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Gaston,  will  you  not  confess?"  Her  cheeks  were 
warmer  now  and  softer  than  those  of  any  other  woman  in 
the  world. 

"Eh,  ma  mie,"  cried  the  Duke,  warningly,  "do  not  be 
unduly  elated  by  de  Soyecourt's  avowal!  You  are  a  very 
charming  person,  but—'  de  gustibus — ' " 

'  *  Gaston — ! "  she  murmured . 

"Ah,  my  God!"  De  Puysange  cast  her  from  him 
roughly,  and  paced  the  room  with  quick,  unequal  strides. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!"  he  cried.  "I  love  you  with  every 
nerve  and  fibre  of  my  body — with  every  pure  thought  and 
aspiration  of  my  misguided  soul!  I  love  you — he,  the 
weak,  pitiful  words  that  cannot  grapple  with  love's 
majesty:  the  weak,  pitiful  folly  that  cannot  be  silent! 
O  heart  of  gold — O  heart  of  gold,  which  I  have  not  mer 
ited — !"  The  brave  turmoil  of  his  soul  died,  as  he  faced 
her,  into  a  sudden,  sick,  illimitable  calm.  "Helene,"  said 
he,  more  gently,  "  I  had  not  intended  to  speak — thus. 
But  I  adore  you.  I  love  you,  and  sufficiently  to  resign 
you  to  the  man  your  heart  has  chosen.  I —  But  pardon 
me,"  and  he  swept  a  white  hand  over  his  brow,  with  a 
little,  choking  laugh,  "  since  I  find  this  new  emotion  some 
what  boisterous.  It  stifles  one  unused  to  it." 

She  faced  him,  inscrutably;  but  her  eyes  were  deep 

264 


nf 

wells  of  gladness.  "Monsieur,"  she  said,  "yours  is  a 
noble  affection.  I  will  not  palter  with  it.  I  accept  your 
offer- 

" Madame,  you  act  with  your  usual  wisdom,"  said  the 
Duke. 

" — on  one  condition,"  she  continued — "that  you  re 
sume  your  position  as  eavesdropper." 

The  Duke  obeyed  her  pointing  finger.  When  he  had 
reached  the  portieres,  the  proud,  black-visaged  man 
looked  back  into  the  salon,  wearily.  She  had  seated  her 
self  in  the  fauteuil,  where  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt  had 
bent  over  her  and  she  had  kissed  the  little  gold  locket. 
Her  back  was  turned  toward  her  husband ;  but  their  eyes 
met  in  the  great  mirror,  supported  by  frail  love-gods,  who 
contended  for  its  possession. 

"Comedy  for  comedy,"  she  murmured.  Sea-cold! — 
who  had  called  her  eyes  sea-cold? 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  frightened  whis 
per;  then  sprang  toward  her,  gasping.  "The  locket — the 
locket — ?"  cried  de  Puysange. 

"Open  it!"  she  answered,  and  her  speech,  too,  was 
breathless. 

Under  his  heel  the  Due  de  Puysange  ground  the  trinket. 
The  long,  thin  chain  clashed  and  caught  about  his  foot, 
but  the  face  of  his  youth  smiled  from  the  fragment  in  his 
quivering  hands.  "O  heart  of  gold!  O  heart  of  gold!" 
he  sobbed,  and  his  eyes  turned  blindly  toward  the  glad 
and  glorious  eyes  of  his  own  wife,  "I  am  not  worthy!  I 
am  not  worthy!" 


As  Played  a.t  M&nneville,  September  18,  1750 

"  L'on  a  choisi  justement  le  temps  que  je  parlois  a  mon 
traiste  de  fils.  Sortons !  Je  veuoo  alter  querir  la  justice,  et 
faire  donner  la  question  a  toute  ma  maison;  a  servantes,  a 
valets,  a  fils,  a  fille,  et  a  moi  aussi" 


Sramatta 


PRINCE  DE  GATINAIS,  an  old  nobleman,  who  affects  yester 

day's  fashion. 
Louis  QUILLAN,  formerly  Louis  DE  SOYECOURT,  son  to  the 

Prince,  and  newly  become  GRAND  DUKE  OF  NOUMARIA. 
VANRINGHAM,  valet  to  the  Prince. 

NELCHEN  THORN,  daughter  to  Hans  Thorn,  landlord  of  the 
Golden  Pomegranate,  and  loves  Louis  Quillan. 

And  in  the  Proem,  DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

SCENE 

The  Dolphin  Room  of    the   Golden  Pomegranate,  an  inn   at 
Manneville-en-Poictesme. 


PROEM: — To  Present  Mr.  Vanringham  as  Nvntius 

'OWEVER  profoundly  the  Due  de  Puy- 
sange  now  approved  of  the  universe  and 
of  its  management,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  in  consequence  he  intended  to  over 
look  de  Soyecourt's  perfidy.  He  bore  the 
man  no  malice ;  indeed,  he  was  sincerely 
iond  of  him,  sympathized  with  him  at  bottom,  and  heart 
ily  regretted  that  the  excellence  of  poor  Louis's  taste 
should  be  thus  demonstrably  counterbalanced  by  the 
frailty  of  his  friendship.  Still,  one  cannot  entirely  dis 
regard  the  conventions:  Louis  had  betrayed  him,  had  be 
fore  the  eyes  of  de  Puysange  made  love  to  de  Puysange's 
wife.  A  duel  was  the  inevitable  consequence,  and  the 
Duke  sent  Ormskirk  to  arrange  a  meeting. 

A  floridly  handsome  man  in  black  was  descending  the 
stairway  of  the  H6tel  de  Soyecourt  at  the  moment  the 
Duke  of  Ormskirk  stepped  cheerily  from  his  coach.  This 
Derson  saluted  the  plump  nobleman  with  due  deference, 
md  was  accorded  in  return  a  little  whistling  sound  of 
tmazement. 

"Mr.  Vanringham,  as  I  live — and  in  Paris!  Man,  will 
rou  hare-brained  Jacobites  never  have  done  with  these 
diotic  intrigues?  Nay,  in  sincerity,  Mr.  Vanringham, 
his  is  annoying." 

"  My  Lord  Duke,"  said  the  other,  "  I  venture  to  suggest 

269 


daUatttrjj 

that  you  forget  I  dare  no  longer  meddle  with  politics,  in 
light  of  my  recent  mishap  at  Tunbridge.  Something  of 
the  truth  leaked  out,  you  comprehend — nothing  provable, 
thank  God! — but  while  I  lay  abed  Captain  Audaine  was 
calling  daily  to  inquire  when  would  my  wound  be  healed 
sufficiently  for  me  to  have  my  throat  cut.  I  found  Eng 
land  unsalubrious  and  vanished." 

Ormskirk  nodded  his  approval.  "  I  have  always  es 
teemed  your  common-sense.  Now,  let  us  consider — yes, 
I  might  use  you  here  in  Paris,  I  believe.  And  the  work 
is  light  and  quite  safe — a  trine  of  sedition,  of  stirring  up  a 
street  riot  or  two." 

Vanringham  laughed.  "  I  might  have  recognized  your 
hand  in  the  late  disturbances,  sir.  As  matters  stand,  I 
can  only  thank  your  Grace  and  regret  that  I  have  earlier 
secured  employment.  I've  been,  since  April,  valet  to  the 
old  Prince  de  Gatinais,  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt's  father." 

"  Yet  lackey  ship  smacks,  however  vaguely,  of  an  honest 
livelihood.  You  disappoint  me,  Mr.  Vanringham." 

"  Nay,  believe  me,  I  yet  pilfer  a  cuff -button  or  perhaps 
a  jewel,  when  occasion  offers,  lest  any  of  my  talents  rust. 
For  we  reside  at  Beaujolais  yonder,  my  Lord  Duke,  and 
very  quietly;  and  I  confess  I  find  the  air  of  Beaujolais 
excellent,  my  duties  none  too  arduous,  and  the  girls  of 
the  country-side  neither  hideous  nor  obdurate.  Oho,  I'm 
tolerably  content  at  Beaujolais — the  more  for  that  'tis  ex 
pedient  just  now  to  go  softly,  as  Ahab  did  of  old." 

"Lest  your  late  associates  get  wind  of  your  where 
abouts?  In  that  I  don't  question  your  discretion,  Mr. 
Vanringham.  And  out  of  pure  friendliness  I  warn  you 
Paris  is  a  very  hotbed  of  disgruntled  Jacobites." 

"Yet  on  an  occasion  of  such  importance — "  Vanring 
ham  began ;  and  latterly  at  the  Duke's  look  of  courteous 
curiosity:  "You  han't  heard,  sir,  that  my  master's  son 

270 


is  unexpectedly  become  the  next  Grand  Duke  of  Nou- 
maria?" 

"Zounds!"  said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  all  alert, "is  old 
Ludwig  dead  at  last?  Why,  then,  the  damned  must  be 
holding  carnival  by  this  to  honor  his  arrival.  Hey,  there 
was  a  merry  rascal,  a  thorough -paced —  He  broke  off 
short.  He  laughed.  "What  the  devil,  man!  Louis  de 
Soyecourt  is  Lud wig's  nephew,  I  grant  you,  on  his  mother's 
side  of  the  house,  but  Ludwig  left  a  son.  De  Soyecourt 
remains  de  Soyecourt  so  long  as  Prince  Rudolph  lives, — 
and  Prince  Rudolph  is  to  marry  the  Elector  of  Baden- 
burg's  daughter  this  autumn,  so  that  we  may  presently 
look  for  any  number  of  von  Freistadts  to  perpetuate  the 
older  branch.  Faith,  you  should  study  your  Genealo- 
gischer  Hofkalender  more  closely,  Mr.  Vanringham." 

With  gusto  Francis  Vanringham  now  narrated  the 
details  of  Duke  Ludwig 's  last  mad  freak1  which,  as  the 
world  knows,  resulted  in  the  death  of  both  Ludwig  and 
his  son,  as  well  as  that  of  their  five  companions  in  the 
escapade — with  gusto,  for  in  progress  the  soul  of  the 
former  actor  warmed  to  his  subject.  But  Ormskirk 
was  sensibly  displeased. 

"Behold  what  is  termed  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish!"  said 
the  Duke,  in  meditation,  when  Vanringham  had  made  an 
end.  "Plainly,  Gaston  cannot  fight  the  rascal,  since 
Hop-o'-my-thumb  is  now,  most  vexatiously,  transformed 
into  a  quasi-Royal  Personage.  Assassination,  I  fear,  is 
out  of  the  question.  So  a  Frenchman  will  reign  in  Nou- 
maria — after  we  had  not  only  bought  old  Ludwig,  but 

1  In  his  Journal  Horace  Calverley  gives  a  long  and  curious  account 
of  the  disastrous  masque  at  Breschau  of  which  he,  then  on  the  Grand 
Tour,  had  the  luck  to  be  an  eye-witness.  His  hints  as  to  Kaunitz's 
and  de  Puysange's  part  in  the  affair  are  now,  of  course,  largely  dis 
credited. 

18  271 


had  paid  for  him,  too!  Why,  I  suppose  he  gave  that 
damnable  masquerade  on  our  money — on  good  English 
money,  mark  you,  Mr.  Vanringham.  This  is  annoying, 
Mr.  Vanringham." 

"I  don't  entirely  follow  your  Grace — " 

"It  is  not  perhaps  desirable  you  should.  Yet  I  give 
you  a  key.  It  is  profoundly  to  be  deplored  that  little 
Louis  de  Soyecourt,  who  cannot  draw  a  contented 
breath  outside  of  his  beloved  Paris,  should  be  forced  to 
marry  Victoria  von  Uhm,  in  his  cousin's  place — yes, 
Kaunitz  will  arrange  that,  of  course — and  afterward  be 
exiled  to  a  semi-barbarous  Noumaria,  where  he  must  de 
vote  the  rest  of  his  existence  to  heading  processions  and 
laying  corner-stones  and  signing  proclamations  and  eating 
sauerkraut.  Nay,  beyond  doubt,  Mr.  Vanringham,  this  is 
deplorable.  Ovid  among  the  Goths,  Mr.  Vanringham!" 

"I'm  to  understand,  then — ?"  the  valet  stammered. 

"You  are  to  understand  that  I  am  more  deeply  your 
debtor  than  I  could  desire  you  to  believe — that  I  am  going 
to  tell  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt  all  which  I  have  told  you, 
but  with  a  far  greater  eloquence,  and  that  I  even  now 
feel  myself  super-Ciceronic. "  The  Duke  of  Ormskirk 
passed  on  with  a  polite  nod. 

Next  day  they  gossiped  busily  at  Versailles  over  the 
sudden  disappearance  of  Louis  de  Soyecourt.  The  affair 
was  discussed,  and  by  the  wits  embroidered,  and  by  the 
imaginative  annotated,  but  it  was  never  solved  until  the 
following  September. 


About  that  time  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Golden 
Pomegranate,  the  one  inn  at  Manneville,  in  Poictesme, 

272 


Monsieur  Louis  Quillan  paused  and  gave  the  contented 
little  laugh  which  had  of  late  become  habitual  with  him. 
"We  are  en  fete  to-night,  it  appears.  Has  the  King, 
then,  by  any  chance  dropped  in  to  supper  with  us, 
Nelchen?" 

Silently  the  girl  bestowed  a  provisional  pat  upon  one 
fold  of  the  white  table-cloth  and  regarded  the  result  with 
critical  approval.  All  being  in  blameless  order,  as  any 
woman  would,  she  shifted  one  of  the  candlesticks  the 
width  of  a  needle.  The  table  was  now  garnished  to  the 
last  resource  of  the  Golden  Pomegranate:  the  napery  was 
snow,  the  glassware  and  the  cutlery  shone  with  a  frosty 
glitter,  and  the  great  bowl  of  crimson  roses  afforded  the 
exact  splurge  of  vainglorious  color  and  glow  she  had 
designed.  Accordingly,  being  now  at  leisure,  she  now 
came  toward  Monsieur  Quillan,  lifting  her  lips  to  his 
precisely  as  a  child  might  have  done. 

4 'Not  quite  the  King,  my  Louis.  None  the  less  I  am 
sure  that  Monseigneur  is  an  illustrious  person.  He  ar 
rived  not  two  hours  ago —  She  told  him  how  Mon 
seigneur  had  come  in  a  coach,  very  splendid;  even  his 
lackeys  were  resplendent.  Monseigneur  would  stay  over 
night  and  would  to-morrow  push  on  to  Beauseant.  He 
had  talked  with  her — a  kindly  old  gentleman,  but  so 
stately  that  she  had  been  the  tiniest  thought  afraid  of 
him  all  the  while.  He  must  be  some  exalted  nobleman, 
Nelchen  considered — a  marquis  at  the  very  least.  Mean 
time  diminutive  Louis  Quillan  had  led  her  to  the  window- 
seat  beneath  the  corridor,  and  sat  holding  one  plump 
trifle  of  a  hand,  the  while  her  speech  fluttered  birdlike 
from  this  topic  to  that,  and  he  regarded  Nelchen  Thorn 
with  an  abysmal  content.  God  had  been  very  good  to 
him. 

So  he  leaned  back  from  her  a  little,  laughing  gently,  and 

273 


(Sallanlrg 

marked  what  a  quaint  and  eager  child  it  was.  He  re 
joiced  that  she  was  beautiful,  and  triumphed  still  more 
to  know  that  even  if  she  had  not  been  beautiful  it  would 
have  made  slight  difference  to  him.  The  soul  of  Nelchen 
was  enough.  Yet,  too,  it  was  desirable  this  soul  should 
be  appropriately  clad,  that  she  should  have,  for  instance, 
such  big  and  lustrous  eyes  —  plaintive  eyes,  such  as  a 
hamadryad  would  conceivably  possess,  since  they  were 
beyond  doubt  the  candid  and  appraising  eyes  of  some 
woodland  creature,  and  always  seemed  to  find  the  world 
not  precisely  intimidating,  perhaps,  yet  in  the  ultimate 
a  very  curious  place  wliere  one  trod  gingerly.  Still,  she 
was  a  practical  body,  prone  to  laughter — as  any  person 
would  be,  in  nature,  whose  mouth  was  all  rotund  and  tiny 
scarlet  curves.  Why,  it  was,  to  a  dimple,  the  mouth 
which  Francois  Boucher  bestowed  on  his  sleek  goddesses ! 
Louis  Quillan  was  at  bottom  sorry  for  poor  Boucher 
painting  away  yonder  at  a  noisy  garish  Versailles,  where 
he  would  never  see  that  perfect  mouth  the  artist  had  so 
often  dreamed  of.  No,  not  in  the  sweet  flesh  at  least; 
lips  like  those  were  both  unknown  and  out  of  place  at 
Versailles.  .  .  . 

And  but  four  months  ago  he  had  fancied  himself  to  be  in 
love  with  Helene  de  Puysange,  he  remembered;  and,  by 
and  large,  he  still  considered  Helene  an  attractive  woman, 
yet  without  attempting  to  explain  that  earlier  and  quaint 
delusion.  .  .  . 

" — and  he  asked  me,  O,  so  many  questions  about  you, 
Louis—" 

"About  me?"  said  Louis  Quillan,  blankly.  He  was  all 
circumspection  now. 

"About  my  lover,  you  stupid  person.  Monseigneur 
assumed,  somehow,  that  I  would  have  a  lover  or  two. 
You  perceive  that  he  is  scarcely  a  stupid  person."  And 

274 


Nelchen  tossed  her  head,  and  not  without  a  touch  of  the 
provocative. 

Louis  Quillan  did  what  seemed  advisable.  " — and, 
furthermore,  your  stupidity  is  no  excuse  for  rumpling  my 
hair,"  said  Nelchen,  presently. 

"Then  you  should  not  pout,"  said  Monsieur  Quillan. 
"Sanity  is  entirely  too  much  to  require  of  any  man  when 
you  pout.  Besides,  your  eyes  are  so  big  and  so  bright 
they  bewilder  one.  In  common  charity  you  ought  to 
wear  spectacles,  Nelchen — in  sheer  compassion  toward 
mankind." 

"  Monseigneur,  also,  has  wonderful  eyes,  Louis.  They 
are  like  the  stars — very  brilliant  and  cool  and  incurious, 
yet  always  looking  at  you  as  though  you  were  so  insig 
nificant  that  the  mere  fact  of  your  presuming  to  exist  at 
all  was  a  trifle  interesting." 

"Like  the  stars!"  Louis  Quillan  had  flung  back  the 
shutter.  It  was  a  tranquil  evening  in  September,  with 
no  moon  as  yet,  but  with  a  great  multitude  of  lesser  lights 
overhead.  "Incurious  like  the  stars!  They  do  dwarf 
one,  rather.  Yet  just  now  I  protest  to  you,  infinitesimal 
man  that  I  am,  I  half -believe  le  bon  Dieu  loves  us  so 
utterly  that  He  has  kindled  all  those  pretty  tapers  solely 
for  our  diversion.  He  wishes  us  to  be  happy,  Nelchen; 
and  so  He  has  given  us  the  big,  fruitful,  sweet-smelling 
world  to  live  in,  and  peace,  and  nimble  bodies,  and  con 
tented  hearts,  and  love,  and — why,  in  a  word,  He  has 
given  us  each  other.  O,  beyond  doubt,  He  loves  us,  my 
Nelchen!" 

For  a  long  while  the  girl  was  silent.  Presently  she 
spoke,  half-hushed,  as  one  in  the  presence  of  sanctity. 
"  I  am  happy.  For  these  three  months  I  have  been  more 
happy  than  I  had  thought  was  permissible  on  earth.  And 
yet,  Louis,  you  tell  me  that  those  stars  are  worlds  per- 

275 


(gallantry 

haps  like  ours — think  of  it,  my  dear,  millions  and  millions 
of  worlds  like  ours,  and  on  each  world  perhaps  a  million 
of  lovers  like  us !  It  is  true  that  among  them  all  no  woman 
loves  as  I  do,  for  that  would  be  impossible.  Yet  think  of 
it,  mon  ami,  how  inconsiderable  a  thing  is  the  happiness 
of  one  man  and  of  one  woman  in  this  immensity!  Why, 
we  are  less  than  nothing,  you  and  I!  Ohe,  I  am  afraid, 
hideously  afraid,  Louis — for  we  are  such  little  folk  and  the 
universe  is  so  big.  And  always  the  storms  go  about  it, 
and  its  lightnings  thrust  at  us,  and  the  waters  of  it  are 
clutching  at  our  feet,  and  its  laws  are  immutable — O,  it 
is  big  and  cruel,  my  dear,  and  we  are  adrift  in  it,  we  who 
are  of  such  puny  insignificance!"  Nelchen  gave  a  tiny 
sob  now,  so  that  he  again  put  forth  his  hand  toward  her. 

"What  a  morbid  child  it  is!"  said  Louis  Quillan.  "I 
can  assure  you  I  have  resided  in  this  same  universe  just 
twice  as  long  as  you,  and  find  that  upon  the  whole  the 
establishment  is  very  creditably  conducted.  There  ar 
rives,  to  be  sure,  an  occasional  tornado,  or  perhaps  an 
earthquake,  each  with  its  incidental  inconveniences;  on 
the  other  hand,  there  is  every  day  an  artistic  sunset,  as 
well  as,  I  am  credibly  informed,  a  sunrise  of  which  poets 
and  energetic  people  are  pleased  to  speak  highly;  while 
every  year  spring  comes  in  like  a  cosmical  upholsterer  and 
refurnishes  the  entire  place  and  makes  us  glad  to  live. 
Nay,  I  protest  to  you,  this  is  an  excellent  world,  my 
Nelchen!  and  likewise  I  protest  to  you  that  in  its  history 
there  was  never  a  luckier  nor  a  happier  man  than  I." 

Nelchen  considered.  "Well,"  she  generously  conceded; 
"perhaps,  after  all,  the  stars  are  more  like  diamonds." 

Louis  Quillan  chuckled.  "And  since  when  were  you  a 
connoisseur  of  diamonds,  my  dear?" 

"Of  course  I  have  never  seen  any.  I  would  like  to, 
though — yes,  Louis,  what  I  would  really  like  would  be  to 

276 


have  a  bushelful  or  so  of  diamonds,  and  to  marry  a  duke 
— only  the  duke  would  have  to  be  you,  of  course — and  to 
go  to  Court,  and  to  have  all  the  fine  ladies  very  jealous  of 
me,  and  for  them  to  be  very  much  in  love  with  you,  and 
for  you  not  to  care  a  sou  for  them,  of  course,  and  for  us 
both  to  see  the  King."  Nelchen  paused,  quite  out  of 
breath  after  this  ambitious  career  in  the  imaginative. 

"To  see  the  King,  indeed!"  scoffed  little  Louis  Quillan. 
"Why,  we  would  see  only  a  very  disreputable  old  rascal  if 
we  did." 

"Still,"  she  pointed  out,  "I  would  like  to  see  a  king. 
Simply  because  I  never  have,  you  conceive." 

"At  times,  Nelchen,  you  are  positively  feminine.  Eve 
ate  the  apple  for  that  identical  reason.  Yet  what  you 
say  is  odd,  because — do  you  know? — I  once  had  a  friend 
who  was  by  way  of  being  a  sort  of  king." 

Nelchen  gave  a  squeal  of  delight.  "And  you  never  told 
me  about  him!  I  loathe  you." 

Louis  Quillan  did  what  seemed  advisable.  " — and, 
furthermore,  your  loathsomeness  is  no  excuse  for  rumpling 
my  hair,"  said  Nelchen,  presently. 

"But  there  is  so  little  to  tell.  His  father  had  married 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Noumaria's  daughter — over  yonder 
between  Silesia  and  Badenburg,  you  may  remember. 
And  so  last  spring  when  the  Grand  Duke  and  the  Prince 
were  both  killed  in  that  horrible  fire,  my  friend  quite  un 
expectedly  became  a  king — O,  king  of  a  mere  celery- 
patch,  but  still  a  sort  of  king.  Figure  to  yourself, 
Nelchen!  they  were  going  to  make  my  poor  friend  marry 
the  Elector  of  Badenburg's  daughter — and  Victoria  von 
Uhm  has  perfection  stamped  upon  her  face  in  all  its 
odious  immaculacy — and  devote  the  rest  of  his  exist 
ence  to  heading  processions  and  laying  corner-stones  and 
signing  proclamations  and  eating  sauerkraut.  Why,  he 

277 


(gallantrg 

would  have  been  like  Ovid  among  the  Goths,  my  Nel- 
chen !' 

"  But  he  could  have  worn  such  splendid  uniforms!"  said 
Nelchen.  "And  diamonds!" 

"You  mercenary  wretch!"  said  he.  Louis  Quillan 
then  did  what  seemed  advisable ;  and  presently  he  added : 

"In  any  event,  the  horrified  man  ran  away." 

"That  was  silly  of  him,"  said  frelchen  Thorn.  "But 
where  did  he  run  to?" 

Louis  Quillan  considered.  "To  Paradise,"  he  at  last 
decided.  "And  there  he  found  a  disengaged  angel,  who 
very  imprudently  lowered  herself  to  the  point  of  marrying 
him.  And  so  he  lived  happily  ever  afterward.  And  so 
till  the  day  of  his  death  he  preached  the  doctrine  that 
silliness  is  the  supreme  wisdom." 

"And  he  regretted  nothing?"  Nelchen  said,  after  a 
meditative  while. 

Louis  Quillan  began  to  laugh.  "O,  yes!  at  times  he 
profoundly  regretted  Victoria  von  Uhm." 

Then  Nelchen  gave  him  a  surprise,  for  the  girl  bent 
toward  him  and  leaned  one  hand  on  either  shoulder. 
"Diamonds  are  not  all,  are  they,  Louis?"  she  very  gently 
breathed;  and  afterward:  "I  thank  you,  dear,  for  telling 
me  of  what  means  so  much  to  you.  I  can  always  read 
between  the  lines,  I  think,  because  for  a  long  wiiile  I  have 
tried  to  know  and  care  for  everything  that  concerns  you." 

The  little  man  had  risen  to  his  feet.     "Nelchen — !" 

"Hush!"  said  Nelchen  Thorn;  "Monseigneur  is  coming 
down  to  his  supper." 

II 

And  it  was  a  person  of  conspicuous  appearance,  both 
by  reason  of  his  great  height  and  leanness  as  well  as  his 

278 


extreme  age,  who  now  descended  the  straight  stairway 
leading  from  the  corridor  above.  At  Court  they  would 
have  told  you  that  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  was  a  trifle  in 
sane,  but  he  troubled  the  Court  very  little,  since  he  had 
spent  the  last  twenty  years,  with  trivial  intermissions,  at 
his  chateau  near  Beaujolais,  where,  as  rumor  buzzed  it, 
he  had  fitted  out  a  laboratory  and  devoted  his  old  age  to 
the  study  of  chemistry.  "Between  my  flute  and  my 
retorts,  my  bees  and  my  chocolate-creams,"  he  was  wont 
to  say,  "I  manage  to  console  myself  for  the  humiliating 
fact  that  even  Death  has  forgotten  my  existence."  For 
he  had  a  child's  appetite  for  sweets  and  was  at  this  time 
well  past  eighty,  though  still  quite  as  agile,  in  his  own 
indolent  fashion,  as  Antoine  de  Soyecourt  had  ever  been, 
even  when — a  good  half -century  ago — he  had  served,  and 
with  distinction,  under  Louis  Quatorze. 

To-night  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  was  all  in  steel-gray, 

of  a  metallic  lustre,  with  prodigiously  fine  and  immaculate 

i  ruffles  at  his  throat  and  wrists.     You  would  have  found 

I  something  spectral  in  the  tall,  gaunt  old  man,  for  his 

periwig   was    heavily   powdered,  and    his    deep- wrinkled 

countenance  an  absolute  white,  save  for  the  thin,  faintly 

;  bluish  lips  and  the  inklike  glitter  of  his  narrowing  eyes, 

as  he  now  regarded  the  tiny  couple  hand-in-hand  before 

him,  like  children  detected  in  mischief.     Yet  his  face  was 

not  unkindly. 

Little  Louis  Quillan  had  caught  an  audible  breath  at 
first  sight  of  him.  Monsieur  Quillan  did  not  speak,  how 
ever,  but  merely  waited,  half -defiant  in  attitude,  and  with 
a  tinge  of  sullenness. 

"You  have  fattened,"  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  said,  at 
last.  "I  wish  I  could.  It  is  incredible  that  a  man  who 
eats  some  five  pounds  of  sugar  daily  should  yet  remain 
a  skeleton."  His  voice  was  guttural  to  the  extreme,  and 

279 


(gallantry 

a  peculiar  slur  ran  through  his  speech,  caused  by  the  loss 
of  his  upper  front  teeth  at  Ramillies ;  yet  the  effect  was 
singular  rather  than  displeasing. 

But  Louis  Quillan  came  of  a  stock  not  lightly  abashed, 
"  I  have  fattened  on  a  new  diet,  monsieur,"  he  now  said— 
"on  happiness.  But,  ma  foil  I  am  discourteous.  Per 
mit  me,  my  father,  to  present  Mademoiselle  Nelchen 
Thorn,  who  has  so  far  honored  me  as  to  consent  to  be 
come  my  wife.  Nelchen,  this  is  my  father,  the  Prince 
de  Gatinais." 

"O — ?"  observed  Nelchen,  midway  in  her  courtesy. 

But  the  Prince  had  taken  her  fingers  and  kissed  them 
quite  as  though  they  had  been  the  finger-tips  of  the  all- 
powerful  Pompadour  at  Versailles  yonder.  "I  salute  the 
future  Marquise  de  Soyecourt.  You  young  people  will  in 
nature  sup  with  me,  then?" 

"No,  monseigneur,  for  I  am  to  wait  upon  the  table,'1 
said  Nelchen,  "and  father  is  at  Sigean  overnight,  having 
the  mare  shod,  and  there  is  only  Leon,  and,  O,  thanks, 
monseigneur,  but  I  had  much  rather  wait  on  the  table." 

The  Prince  waved  his  hand.  "My  valet,  mademoiselle, 
is  at  your  disposal.  Vanringham!"  he  called. 

From  his  apartments  above  descended  a  floridly  hand 
some  man  in  black.  "Monseigneur — ?" 

"Go!"  quickly  said  Louis  de  Soyecourt,  while  the  Prince 
spoke  with  his  valet — "go,  Nelchen,  and  make  yourself 
even  more  beautiful  if  such  a  thing  be  possible.  He  will 
never  resist  you,  my  dear — ah,  no,  that  is  out  of  nature." 

"You  will  find  more  plates  in  the  cupboard,  Mon 
sieur  Vanringham,"  remarked  Nelchen,  as  she  obediently 
tripped  up  the  stairway,  toward  her  room  in  the  right 
wing.  "And  the  knives  and  forks  are  in  the  second 
drawer." 

So  Vanringham  laid  two  covers  in  discreet  silence;  then 

280 


bowed  and  withdrew  by  the  side  door  that  led  to  the 
kitchen.  The  Prince  had  indolently  seated  himself  be 
side  the  open  fire,  where  he  yawned  and  now  looked  up 
with  a  wintry  smile. 

"Well,  Louis,"  said  the  Prince  de  Gatinais — "so  you 
have  determined  to  defy  me,  eh?" 


Ill 

"I  trust  there  is  no  question  of  defiance/'  Louis  de 
Soyecourt  equably  returned.  "Yet  I  regret  you  should 
have  been  at  pains  to  follow  me,  since  I  still  claim  the 
privilege  of  living  out  my  life  in  my  own  fashion." 

"You  claim  a  right  which  never  existed,  my  little  son. 
It  is  not  demanded  of  any  man  that  he  be  happy,  where 
as  it  is  manifestly  necessary  for  a  gentleman  to  obey 
his  God,  his  King,  and  his  own  conscience  without 
swerving.  If  he  also  find  time  for  happiness,  well  and 
good;  otherwise,  he  must  be  unhappy.  But,  above  all, 
he  must  intrepidly  play  out  his  allotted  part  in  God's 
scheme  of  things,  and  with  due  humbleness  recognize 
that  the  happiness  or  the  unhappiness  of  any  man 
alive  is  a  trivial  consideration  as  against  the  fulfilment 
of  this  scheme." 

"You  and  Nelchen  are  much  at  one  there,"  the  Marquis 
lightly  replied;  "yet,  for  my  part,  I  fancy  that  Providence 
is  not  particularly  interested  in  who  happens  to  be  the 
:aext  Grand  Duke  of  Noumaria." 

The  Prince  struck  one  withered  hand  upon  the  arm  of 
his  chair.  "You  dare  to  jest!  Louis,  your  levity  is  in- 
:orrigible.  France  is  beaten,  discredited  among  nations, 
laked  to  her  enemies.  She  lies  here,  between  England 
and  Prussia,  as  in  a  vise.  God  summons  you,  a  French- 

281 


man,  to  reign  in  Noumaria,  and  in  addition  affords  you 
a  chance  to  marry  that  weathercock  of  Badenburg's 
daughter.  Ah,  He  never  spoke  more  clearly,  Louis. 
And  you  would  reply  with  a  shallow  jest!  Why,  Baden- 
burg  and  Noumaria  just  bridge  that  awkward  space  be 
tween  France  and  Austria.  Your  accession  would  con 
firm  the  Empress — they  have  it  in  her  own  hand  yonder 
at  Versailles!  I  tell  you  it  is  all  planned  that  France 
and  Austria  will  combine,  Louis!  Think  of  it  —  our 
France  on  her  feet  again,  mistress  of  Europe,  and  every 
whit  of  it  your  doing,  Louis — ah,  my  boy,  my  boy,  you 
cannot  refuse!" 

Youth  had  ebbed  back  into  the  man  as  he  ran  on  in  a 
high,  disordered  voice,  pleading,  clutching  at  his  son  with 
that  strange  new  eagerness  which  had  now  possessed  the 
Prince  de  Gatinais.  He  was  remembering  the  France 
which  he  had  known ;  not  the  ignoble,  tawdry  France  of  the 
moment,  misruled  by  women,  confessors,  and  valets,  but 
the  France  of  his  dead  Sun  King,  and  it  seemed  that  the 
memory  had  brought  back  with  it  the  youth  of  Antoine 
de  Soyecourt  for  an  instant.  Just  for  a  heart-beat,  as 
his  son  stood  irresolute,  the  lank  man  towered  erect,  his 
cheeks  pink,  and  every  muscle  tense. 

Then  Louis  de  Soyecourt  shook  his  head.  In  Eng 
land's  interest,  as  he  now  vividly  perceived,  Ormskirk  had 
played  upon  his  ignorance  and  his  love  of  pleasure  as  an 
adept  plays  upon  the  strings  of  a  violin ;  but  de  Soyecourt 
had  his  reason,  and  a  gigantic  reason,  for  harboring  no 
grudge  against  the  Englishman. 

"  Frankly,  my  father,  I  would  not  give  up  Nelchen 
though  all  Europe  depended  upon  it.  I  am  a  coward,  per 
haps  ;  but  I  have  my  chance  of  happiness,  and  I  mean  to 
take  it.  So  Cousin  Otto  is  welcome  to  the  duchy.  I  in 
finitely  prefer  Nelchen. " 

282 


"Otto!  a  general  in  the  Prussian  army,   Frederick's 

property,    Frederick's     idolater!"      The  old    Prince    fell 

from  an  apex  of  horror  to  his  former    pleading    tones. 

"  But,  then,  it  is  not  necessary  you  give  up  Nelchen.     Ah, 

no,  a  certain  latitude  is  permissible  in  these  matters,  you 

understand.     She  could  be  made  a  comtesse,  a  marquise — 

|  any  thing  you  choose  to  demand,  my  Louis.     And  you 

i  could  marry  Victoria  von  Uhm  just  the  same — 

"Were  you  any  other  man,  monsieur,"  said  Louis  de 
;•  Soyecourt,  "  I  would,  of  course,  knock  you  down.  As  it  is, 
II  can  only  ask  you  to  respect  my  helplessness." 

Now  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  sank  back  into  the  chair. 

He   seemed  incredibly  old  now.     "You  are  right,"   he 

mumbled — "yes,   you  are  right,   Louis.     I  have  talked 

ijwith  her.     With  her  that  would  be  impossible.     I  ask 

your  pardon,  my  little  son." 

The  younger  man  had  touched  him  upon  the  shoulder. 
!"My  father—"  he  began. 

"Yes,  I  am  your  father,"  said  the  other,  dully,  "and  it 
|  is  that  which  puzzles  me.  You  are  my  own  son,  and  yet 
you  prefer  your  happiness  to  the  welfare  of  France,  to 
the  very  preservation  of  France.  Never  in  six  centuries 
has  there  been  a  de  Soyecourt  to  do  that.  God  and  the 
King  we  served  .  .  .  six  centuries  .  .  .  and  to-day  a  blue- 
eyed  pygmy  prefers  an  innkeeper's  daughter.  ..."  His 
voice  trailed  and  slurred  like  that  of  one  speaking  in  his 
sleep,  for  he  was  an  old  man,  and  by  this  the  flare  of  his 
excitement  had  quite  burned  out,  and  weariness  clung 
about  his  senses  like  a  drug.  "I  will  go  back  to  Beaujo- 
lais  ...  to  my  retorts  and  my  bees  .  .  .  and  forget  there 
was  never  a  de  Soyecourt  in  six  centuries,  save  my  own 
son  ..."  You  would  have  said  the  man  was  dying. 

"My  father!"  Louis  de  Soyecourt  cried,  and  shook  him 
gently.  "Ah,  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  in  theory.  But  in 

283 


(SaUantrg 

practice  I  cannot  give  her  up.  Surely  you  understand — 
why,  they  tell  me  there  was  never  a  more  ardent  lover 
than  you.  They  tell  me —  And  you  would  actually  have 
me  relinquish  Nelchen,  even  after  you  have  seen  her! 
Yet  remember,  monsieur,  I  love  her  much  as  you  loved 
my  mother — that  mettlesome  little  princess  whom  you 
stole  from  the  very  heart  of  her  court.1  Ah,  I  have  heard 
tales  of  you,  you  conceive.  And  Nelchen  means  as  much 
to  me,  remember — she  means  youth,  and  happiness,  and  a 
tiny  space  of  laughter  before  I,  too,  am  wTorms'-meat,  and 
a  proper  appreciation  of  God's  love  for  us  all,  and  every 
thing  a  man's  mind  clutches  at  when  he  wakens  from  some 
forgotten  dream  that  leaves  him  weeping  with  sheer 
adoration  of  its  beauty.  Ho,  never  was  there  a  kinder 
father  than  you,  monsieur.  You  have  spoiled  me  most 
atrociously,  I  concede,  and  after  so  many  years  you  can 
not  in  decency  whip  about  like  this  and  deny  me  my  very 
life.  Why,  my  father,  it  is  your  little  Louis  who  is  plead 
ing  with  you — and  you  have  never  denied  me  anything! 
See,  now,  how  I  presume  upon  your  weakness.  I  am  act 
ually  bullying  you  into  submission — bullying  you  through 
your  love  for  me.  Eh,  we  love  greatly,  we  de  Soyecourts, 
and  give  all  for  love.  Your  owrn  life  attests  that,  mon 
sieur.  Now,  then,  let  us  recognize  the  fact  we  are  de 
Soyecourts,  you  and  I.  Ah,  my  father — " 

Thus  he  babbled  on,  for  the  sudden  langour  of  the 
Prince  had  alarmed  him,  and  not  shallowly,  since  Louis 
de  Soyecourt,  to  afford  him  justice,  loved  his  father  with  a 
heartier  intensity  than  falls  to  the  portion  of  most  parents. 
To  arouse  the  semi-conscious  man  was  his  one  thought. 
And  now  he  got  his  reward,  for  the  Prince  de  Gatinais 

1  The  curious  may  find  further  details  of  the  then  Marquis  de  Soye 
court 's  abduction  of  the  Princess  Clotilda  in  the  voluminous  pages  of 
Hulot,  under  the  year  1708. 

284 


opened  his  keen  old  eyes,  a  trifle  dazedly,  and  drew  a  deep 
breath  which  shook  the  great  frail  body  through  and 
through. 

"Let  us  recognize  that  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you 
and  I,"  he  repeated,  in  a  new  voice;  and  latterly:  "After 
all,  I  cannot  drag  you  to  Noumaria  by  the  scruff  of 
your  neck  like  a  truant  school-boy.  Let  us,  then,  rec 
ognize  the  fact  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I." 

"Heh,  in  that  event,"  said  the  Marquis,  ''we  must 
both  fall  upon  our  knees  forthwith.  For  look,  my  father !" 

Nelchen  Thorn  was  midway  in  her  descent  of  the  stairs. 
She  wore  her  simple  best.  All  white  it  was,  and  vapor 
ous  in  texture,  and  yet  the  plump  shoulders  it  displayed 
were  not  put  to  shame.  Rather  must  April  clouds  and 
the  snows  of  December  retire  abashed,  as  scandalously 
inefficient  similes,  the  Marquis  meditated;  and  as  she 
paused,  starry-eyed  and  a  thought  afraid,  even  the  Prince 
de  Gatinais  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  greatly  to  blame 
his  son. 

' '  I  begin  to  suspect, ' '  said  the  Prince,  ' '  that  I  am  Jacob 
of  old,  and  you  a  very  young  cherub  venturing  out  of 
Paradise  through  motives  of  curiosity.  Eh,  my  dear,  let 
us  see  what  entertainment  we  can  afford  you  during  your 
brief  stay  upon  earth."  He  took  her  hand  and  led  her 
to  the  table. 

IV 

Vanringham  served.  Never  was  any  one  more  blithe 
than  the  lean  Prince  de  Gatinais.  The  latest  gossip  of 
Versailles  was  delivered,  though  with  discreet  emenda 
tions;  he  laughed  gayly;  and  he  ate  with  an  appetite. 
There  was  a  blight  among  the  cattle  hereabouts?  How 
deplorable!  witchcraft,  beyond  doubt.  And  Louis  passed 

285 


(gallantrg 

as  a  piano-tuner  ? — because  there  were  no  pianos  in  Man- 
neville.  Excellent!  he  had  always  given  Louis  credit 
for  a  surpassing  cleverness;  now  it  was  demonstrated. 
In  fine,  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  became  so  jovial  that 
Nelchen  was  quite  at  ease,  and  Louis  de  Soyecourt  vaguely 
alarmed.  He  knew  his  father,  and  for  the  Prince  to  yield 
thus  facilely  was  to  him  incredible.  Still  his  father  had 
seen  Nelchen,  had  talked  with  Nelchen  .  .  .  the  eyes  of 
the  tiny  man  devoured  her. 

Now  the  Prince  rose  to  his  feet.  "Fresh  glasses,  Van- 
ringham,"  he  ordered;  and  then:  "I  give  you  a  toast. 
Through  desire  of  love  and  happiness,  you  young  people 
have  stolen  a  march  on  me.  Eh,  I  am  not  Sgarnarelle 
of  the  comedy!  therefore,  I  drink  cheerfully  to  love 
and  happiness.  I  consider  Louis  is  not  in  the  right,  but 
I  know  that  he  is  wise,  my  daughter,  as  concerns  his 
soul's  health,  in  clinging  to  you  rather  than  to  a  tinsel 
crown.  Of  Fate  I  have  demanded — like  Sgarnarelle  of 
the  comedy — prosaic  equity  and  common-sense;  of  Fate 
he  has  in  turn  demanded  happiness:  and  Fate  will  at  her 
convenience  decide  between  us.  Meantime  I  drink  to 
love  and  happiness,  since  I,  too,  remember.  I  know 
better  than  to  argue  with  Louis,  you  observe,  my  Nelchen; 
we  de  Soyecourts  are  not  lightly  severed  from  any  notion 
we  may  have  taken  up.  And  in  consequence  I  drink  to 
love  and  happiness!  to  the  perdurable  supplication  of 
youth!" 

They  drank.  "To  your  love,  my  son,"  said  the  Prince 
de  Gatinais — "to  the  true  love  of  a  de  Soyecourt."  And 
afterward  he  laughingly  drank:  "To  your  happiness,  my 
daughter — to  your  eternal  happiness." 

Nelchen  sipped.  The  two  men  stood  with  drained 
glasses.  Now  on  a  sudden  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  groaned 
and  clutched  his  breast. 

286 


"I  was  ever  a  glutton,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "I  should 
have  been  more  moderate — I  am  faint — " 

"Salts  are  the  best  thing  in  the  world,"  said  Nelchen, 
with  fine  readiness.  She  was  half-way  up  the  stairs. 
"A  moment,  monseigneur — a  moment,  and  I  fetch  salts." 
Nelchen  Thorn  had  disappeared  into  her  room. 


The  Prince  sat  drumming  upon  the  table  with  his  long 
white  fingers.  He  had  waved  the  Marquis  and  Vanring- 
ham  aside.  "A  passing  weakness — I  am  not  adamant," 
he  had  said,  half -peevishly. 

"Then  I  prescribe  another  glass  of  this  really  excellent 
wine,"  laughed  little  Louis  de  Soyecourt.  At  heart  he 
was  not  merry,  and  his  own  unreasoning  nervousness 
irritated  him,  for  it  seemed  to  the  Marquis,  quite  irra 
tionally,  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  cheery  room  was, 
without  forerunnership,  become  tense  and  expectant, 
and  was  now  appalled  to  much  the  hush  which  precedes 
the  bursting  of  a  thunder-storm.  And  accordingly  he 
now  laughed  beyond  temperance. 

"I  prescribe  another  glass,  monsieur,"  said  he.  "Eh, 
that  is  the  true  panacea  for  fain tness — for  every  ill.  Come, 
we  will  drink  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Poictesme— 
nay,  I  am  too  modest — to  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
France,  in  Europe,  in  the  whole  universe!  Feriam  sidera, 
my  father!  and  confound  all  mealy-mouthed  reticence, 
for  you  have  both  seen  her.  Confess,  am  I  not  a  lucky 
man?  Come,  Vanringham,  too,  shall  drink.  No  glasses? 
Take  Nelchen's,  then.  Come,  you  fortunate  rascal,  you 
shall  drink  to  the  bride  from  the  bride's  half -emptied  glass. 
To  the  most  beautiful  woman — why,  what  the  devil — ?" 
19  287 


(KaUanirg 

Vanringham  had  blurted  out  an  odd,  unhuman  sound, 
and  had  gone  ashen.  His  extended  hand  shook  and 
jerked,  as  in  irresolution,  and  presently  struck  the  prof 
fered  glass  from  de  Soyecourt's  grasp.  You  heard  the 
tiny  crash  very  audibly  in  the  stillness,  and  afterward  the 
irregular  drumming  of  the  old  Prince's  finger-tips.  He 
had  not  raised  his  head,  had  not  moved. 

Presently  Louis  de  Soyecourt  came  to  him,  without 
speaking,  and  placed  one  hand  under  his  father's  chin, 
and  lifted  the  Prince's  countenance,  like  a  dead  weight, 
toward  his  own.  Thus  the  two  men  regarded  each  the 
other.  Their  silence  was  rather  horrible. 

' '  It  was  not  in  vain  that  I  dabbled  with  chemistry  all 
these  years,"  at  last  said  the  guttural  voice  of  the  Prince 
de  Gatinais.  "Yes,  the  child  is  dead  by  this.  Let  us 
recognize  the  fact  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I." 

But  his  son  had  flung  aside  the  passive,  wrinkled  face, 
and  then,  with  a  straining  gesture,  wiped  the  fingers 
that  had  touched  it  upon  the  sleeve  of  his  left  arm.  He 
turned  to  the  stairway.  His  hand  grasped  the  newel- 
post  and  gripped  it  so  firmly  that  he  seemed  less  to 
surmount  than  by  one  despairing  effort  to  lift  his  whole 
body  to  the  first  step.  He  ascended  slowly,  with  a  queer 
shamble,  and  disappeared  into  Nelchen's  room. 


VI 

"What  next,  monseigneur?"  said  Vanringham,  half- 
whispering. 

"Why,  next,"  said  the  Prince  de  Gatinais,  "I  imagine 
that  he  will  kill  us  both.  Meantime,  as  Louis  says,  the 
wine  is  really  excellent.  So  you  may  refill  my  glass,  my 
man." 

288 


He  was  selecting  from  the  comfit-dish,  with  wariness, 
the  bonbon  of  the  most  conspicuous  allure,  when  his  son 
returned  into  the  apartment.  Very  tenderly  Louis  de 
Soyecourt  laid  his  burden  upon  a  settle,  and  then  drew  the 
older  man  toward  it. 

You  noted  first  how  the  thing  lacked  weight:  a  flower 
snapped  from  its  stalk  could  not  have  lain  there  more 
lightly.  The  loosened  hair  strained  toward  the  floor 
and  seemed  to  have  sucked  all  color  from  the  thing  to  in 
form  its  insolent  glory ;  the  tint  of  Nelchen's  lips  was  less 
sprightly,  and  for  the  brittle  splendor  of  her  eyes  Death 
had  substituted  a  conscientious  copy  in  crayons:  other 
wise  there  was  no  change;  otherwise  she  seemed  to  lie 
there  and  muse  on  something  remote  and  curious,  yet 
quite  as  she  would  have  wished  it  to  be. 

"See,  my  father,"  Louis  de  Soyecourt  said,  "she  was 
only  a  child,  more  little  even  than  I.  Never  in  her  brief 
life  had  she  wronged  any  one — never,  I  believe,  had  she 
known  an  unkind  thought.  Always  she  laughed,  you 
understand — O,  my  father,  is  it  not  pitiable  that  Nelchen 
will  never  laugh  any  more?" 

"I  entreat  of  God  to  have  mercy  upon  her  soul,"  said 
the  old  Prince  de  Gatinais.  "I  entreat  of  God  that  the 
soul  of  her  murderer  may  dwell  eternally  in  the  nether 
most  pit  of  hell." 

"I  cry  amen,"  Louis  de  Soyecourt  said. 

The  Prince  turned  toward  him.  "And  will  you  kill 
me  now,  Louis?" 

"I  cannot,"  said  the  other.  "Is  it  not  an  excellent 
jest  that  I  should  be  your  son  and  still  be  human  ?  Yet 
as  for  your  instrument,  your  cunning  butler —  Come,  Van- 
ringham!"  he  barked.  "We  are  unarmed.  Come,  my 
man,  for  I  mean  to  kill  you  with  my  naked  hands." 

"Vanringham!"  The  Prince  leaped  forward.  "Behind 

289 


(gallantry 

me,  Vanringham!"  As  the  valet  ran  to  him  the  old 
Prince  de  Gatinais  caught  a  knife  from  the  table  and 
buried  it  to  the  handle  in  Vanringham 's  breast.  The 
man  coughed,  choked,  clutched  his  assassin  by  either 
shoulder ;  thus  he  stood  with  a  bewildered  face,  shuddering 
visibly,  every  muscle  twitching.  Suddenly  he  shrieked, 
with  an  odd,  gurgling  noise,  and  his  grip  relaxed,  and 
Francis  Vanringham  seemed  to  crumple  among  his  gar 
ments,  so  that  he  shrank  rather  than  fell  to  the  floor. 
His  hands  stretched  forward,  his  fingers  spreading  and 
for  a  moment  writhing  in  agony,  and  then  he  lay  quite 
still. 

"You  progress,  my  father,"  said  Louis  de  Soyecourt, 
quietly.  "And  what  new  infamy  may  I  now  look  for?" 

"A  valet!"  said  the  Prince.  "You  would  have  fought 
with  him — a  valet!  He  topped  you  by  six  inches.  And 
the  man  was  desperate.  Your  life  was  in  danger.  And 
your  life  is  valuable." 

"I  have  earlier  perceived,  my  father,  that  you  prize 
human  life  very  highly." 

The  Prince  de  Gatinais  struck  sharply  upon  the  table. 
"I  prize  the  welfare  of  France.  To  secure  this  it  is 
necessary  that  you  and  no  other  reign  in  Noumaria.  But 
for  the  girl  you  would  have  yielded  just  now.  So  to  the 
welfare  of  France  I  sacrifice  the  knave  at  my  feet,  the 
child  yonder,  and  my  own  soul.  Let  us  remember  that 
we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I." 

"Rather  I  see  in  you,"  began  the  younger  man,  "a 
fiend.  I  see  in  you  a  far  ignobler  Judas — ' 

"And  I  in  you  the  savior  of  France.  Nay,  let  us  re 
member  that  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I.  And  for 
six  centuries  our  first  duty  has  ever  been  the  preserval  of 
France.  You  behold  only  a  man  and  a  woman  assassi 
nated  ;  I  behold  thousands  of  men  preserved  from  death, 

290 


many  thousands  of  women  rescued  from  hunger  and  deg 
radation.  I  have  sinned,  and  grievously ;  ages  of  torment 
may  not  purge  my  infamy :  yet  I  swear  it  is  well  done!" 

"And  I — ?"  the  little  Marquis  said. 

"  Why,  your  heart  is  broken,  my  son,  for  you  loved  this 
girl  as  I  loved  your  mother,  and  now  you  can  nevermore 
quite  believe  in  the  love  God  bears  for  us  all ;  and  my  soul 
is  damned  irretrievably:  but  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you 
and  I,  and  accordingly  we  rejoice  and  drink  to  France, 
to  the  true  love  of  a  de  Soyecourt!  to  France  preserved!  to 
France  mighty  once  more  among  her  peers!" 

Louis  de  Soyecourt  stood  quite  motionless.  Only  his 
eyes  roved  toward  his  father,  then  to  the  body  that  had 
been  Nelchen's.  He  yelped  like  a  wolf  as  he  caught  up 
his  glass.  "You  have  conquered.  What  else  have  I  to 
live  for  now?  To  France,  you  devil!" 

"To  France,  my  son!"  The  glasses  clinked.  "To  the 
true  love  of  a  de  Soyecourt!" 

And  immediately  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  fell  at  his  son's 
feet.  "You  will  go  into  Noumaria?" 

"What  does  that  matter  now?"  the  other  wearily  said. 
"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Get  up,  you  devil!" 

But  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  had  caught  at  either  ankle. 
His  hands  were  ice.  "Then  we  preserve  France,  you  and 
I!  We  are  both  damned,  I  think,  but  it  is  worth  while, 
Louis.  In  hell  we  may  remember  that  it  was  well  worth 
while.  I  have  slain  your  very  soul,  my  dear  son,  but 
France  is  saved."  The  old  man  fell  prone  upon  his  face. 
"Forgive  me,  my  son!  For,  see,  I  yield  you  what  rep 
aration  I  may.  See,  Louis  —  I  was  chemist  enough  for 
two.  Wine  of  my  own  vintage  I  have  tasted,  of  the  brave 
vintage  which  now  revives  all  France.  And  I  swear  to 
you  the  child  did  not  suffer,  Louis,  not — not  much.  See, 
Louis!  she  did  not  suffer."  A  convulsion  tore  at  and 

291 


(gallantry 

shook  the  aged  body,  and  twitched  awry  the  mouth  that 
had  smiled  so  resolutely. 

Louis  de  Soyecourt  knelt  and  caught  up  the  wrinkled 
face  between  both  hands.  "My  father — !"  said  Louis  de 
Soyecourt.  Afterward  he  kissed  the  dead  lips  tenderly. 
"Teach  me  how  to  live,  dear,"  said  Louis  de  Soyecourt, 
"for  I  begin  to  comprehend — in  part  I  comprehend,  my 
father."  And  throughout  the  moment  even  Nelchen 
Thorn  was  forgotten. 


Sural 

As  Played  at  Breschau,  May  3,  1755 

"Venez,  belle,  venez, 

Qu'on  ne  sgauroit  tenir,  et  qui  vous  mutinez. 
Void  vostre  galand!  a  moi  pour  recompence 
Vous  pouvez  faire  une  humble  et  douce  reverence! 
Adieu,  revenement  trompe  un  peu  mes  soukaits; 
Mais  tous  les  amoureux  ne  sont  pas  satisfaits." 


iUramatts    {for  aunt? 

GRAND  DUKE  OF  NOUMARIA,  formerly  Louis  DE  SOYECOURT, 
tormented  beyond  measure  with  the  impertinences  of 
life. 

COMTE  DE  CHATEAUROUX,  cousin  to  the  Grand  Duchess,  and 
complies  with  circumstance. 

GRAND  DUCHESS  OF  NOUMARIA,  a  capable  woman. 
BARONESS  VON  ALTENBURG,  a  coquette. 

SCENE 
The  Palace  Gardens  at  Breschau. 


lural 

PROEM:— In  Default  of  the  Hornpipe  Customary  to  a  Lengthy  Interval 

between  Acts 

the  least  syllable  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
fulfilled  the  promise  made  to  the  old 
Prince  de  Gatinais,  so  that  presently 
there  went  about  Breschau,  hailed  by 
more  or  less  enthusiastic  plaudits,  a  fair 
and  blue-eyed  and  tiny  man,  who  smiled 
mechanically  upon  the  multitude,  and  looked  after  the 
interests  of  France  mechanically,  and  mechanically  out- 
rivalled  his  predecessor,  un venerable  Ludwig  von  Frei- 
stadt,  who  until  this  time  had  borne  the  palm  for  in 
dolence  and  dissipation  among  the  eighteen  grand  dukes, 
largely  of  quite  grand-ducal  morals,  that  had  earlier 
governed  in  Noumaria. 

At  moments,  perhaps,  the  Grand  Duke  recollected  the 
Louis  Quillan  who  had  spent  three  months  in  Manneville, 
but  only,  I  think,  as  one  recalls  some  pleasurable  ac 
quaintance;  Quillan  had  little  resembled  the  Marquis  de 
Soyecourt,  rake,  tippler,  and  exquisite  of  Versailles,  and 
in  the  Grand  Duke  you  would  have  found  even  less  of 
him.  He  was  quite  dead,  was  Quillan,  for  the  man  that 
Nelchen  loved  had  died  within  the  moment  of  Nelchen's 
death.  He,  the  poor  children!  his  Highness  meditated. 
Dead,  both  of  them,  dead  long  ago,  dead  in  Poictesme 
yonder.  .  .  .  Eh  bien,  it  was  not  necessary  to  engender 
melancholy. 

295 


So  his  Highness  amused  himself — not  very  heartily,  but 
at  least  to  the  last  resource  of  a  flippant  and  unprudish 
age.  Meantime  his  subjects  bored  him,  his  duties  bored 
him,  his  wife  bored  him,  and,  above  all,  he  most  hideously 
bored  himself.  But  I  spare  you  a  chronique  scandaleuse 
of  Duke  Louis's  reign  and  come  hastily  to  its  termination, 
as  more  pertinent  to  the  matter  I  have  now  in  hand. 

Suffice  it,  then,  that  he  ruled  in  Noumaria  five  years, 
and  that  he  begot  two  children  there  in  lawful  matrimony, 
and  stoutened  daily,  and  latterly  decided  that  the  young 
Baroness  von  Altenburg — not  excepting  even  her  lovely 
and  multifarious  precursors — was  beyond  doubt  possessed 
of  the  brightest  eyes  in  all  history.  Therefore  did  his 
Highness  lay  before  these  eyes  a  certain  project,  upon 
which  the  Baroness  was  in  season  moved  to  comment. 


"The  idea,"  said  the  Baroness,  "is  preposterous!" 
"Admirably  put!"  cried  the  Grand  Duke.     "We  will 
execute  it,  then,  to-night." 

" — and,  besides,  one  could  take  only  a  portmanteau — ' 
"And  the  capacity  of  a  portmanteau  is  limited,"  his 
Highness  agreed.  "Nay,  I  can  assure  you,  after  I  had 
packed  my  coronet  this  evening  there  was  hardlv  room 
for  a  change  of  linen.  And  I  found  it  necessary  to  choose 
between  the  sceptre  and  a  tooth-brush." 

"Louis,  Louis,"  sighed  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg, 
"will  you  never  be  serious?  You  plan  to  throw  away  a 
duchy,  and  in  the  act  you  laugh  like  a  school-boy." 

"Ma  foil"  retorted  the  Grand  Duke,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  moonlit  gardens;  "as  a  loyal  Noumarian,  should 
I  not  rejoice  at  the  good-fortune  which  is  about  to  befall 

296 


Sural  Aitdt?nr* 

my  country?  Nay,  Amalia,  morality  demands  my  abdi 
cation,"  he  added,  virtuously,  "and  for  this  once  morality 
and  I  are  in  complete  accord." 

The  Baroness  von  Altenburg  was  not  disposed  to  argue 
the  isolation  of  the  event,  since  the  world  knew  that  the 
Grand  Duke  of  Noumaria  had  in  his  time  left  little  undone 
toward  jeopardizing  either  his  reputation  or  his  duchy. 
Louis  de  Soyecourt's  latest  scheme,  however,  threatened 
to  dispense  with  both. 

As  prologue  to  its  elucidation  he  had  conducted  the 
Baroness  into  the  summer-house  that  his  grandfather, 
good  Duke  Augustus,  erected  in  the  Gardens  of  Breschau, 
close  to  the  Fountain  of  the  Naiads,  and  had  therein  with 
a  few  sentences  explained  his  plan.  There  were  post- 
horses  in  Noumaria ;  there  was  also  an  unobstructed  road 
that  led  you  to  Vienna,  and  thence  to  the  world  outside; 
and  he  proposed,  in  short,  to  quiet  the  grumbling  of  the 
discontented  Noumarians  by  the  sudden  and  complete 
disappearance  of  their  Grand  Duke.  And  as  a  patriot, 
he  submitted,  the  Baroness  could  not  fail  to  perceive 
the  inestimable  benefit  which  would  thus  accrue  to  her 
native  land. 

Yet  he  stipulated  that  his  exit  from  public  life  should 
be  made  in  company  with  the  latest  lady  on  whom  he  had 
bestowed  his  variable  affections;  and  remembering  this 
proviso,  the  Baroness,  without  exactly  encouraging  or  dis- 
encouraging  his  scheme,  was  at  least  not  prone  to  insist 
on  coupling  him  with  morality. 

She  contented  herself,  however,  with  a  truism.  "In 
deed,  your  Highness,  the  example  you  set  your  subjects 
is  atrocious." 

"And  yet  they  complain!"  said  the  Grand  Duke— 
"though  I  swear  to  you  I  have  always  done  the  things  I 
ought  not  to  have  done,  and  have  left  unread  the  papers 

297 


(Sallantrg 

I  have  signed.     And  what  more,  in  reason,  can  one  ask 
of  a  grand  duke?" 

"You  are  indolent — "  remonstrated  the  lady. 

"You,"  said  his  Highness,  "are  adorable." 

" — and  that  injures  your  popularity — ' 

"Which,  by- the- way,  vanished  with  my  waist." 

" — and  moreover  you  create  scandals— 

"'The  woman  tempted  me,"  quoted  the  Grand 
Duke,  and  added,  reflectively:  "  Amalia,  it  is  very  sin- 
gular— " 

"  Nay,  I  am  afraid,"  the  Baroness  lamented,  "it  is 
rather  notoriously  plural." 

But  the  Grand  Duke  waved  a  dignified  dissent,  and 
continued.  " — that  I  could  never  resist  green  eyes  of  a 
peculiar  shade." 

The  Baroness,  becoming  vastly  interested  in  the  struct 
ure  of  her  fan,  went  on,  with  some  severity:  "Your  repu 
tation—" 

"  De  mortuis—  '  pleaded  the  Grand  Duke. 

" — is  bad;  and  you  go  from  bad  to  worse." 

"By  no  means,"  said  his  Highness,  "since  when  I  was 
nineteen— 

"I  will  not  believe  it  even  of  you!"  cried  the  Baroness 
von  Altenburg. 

"I  assure  you,"  his  Highness  protested,  gravely,  "I 
was  then  a  devil  of  a  fellow!  She  was  only  twenty,  and 
she  had  brown  eyes— 

"And  by  this  late  period,"  said  the  lady,  "has  in  addi 
tion  an  infinity  of  grandchildren." 

"  I  happen  to  be  just  thirty-five!"  the  Grand  Duke  said, 
with  dignity. 

"  In  which  event  the  Almanachen  dating,  say,  from 
1710—" 

"Are  not  unmarred  by  an  occasional  misprint.     Truly 

298 


iural  Au& 

I  lament  the  carelessness  of  all  typographers,  and  I  will 
explain  it,  say,  in  Vienna." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  Vienna." 

" 4  And  Sapphira,' "  murmured  his  Highness,  " '  fell  down 
straightway  at  his  feet,  and  yielded  up  the  ghost! '  So 
beware,  Amalia!" 

"I  am  not  afraid,  your  Highness — 

"Nor  in  effect  am  I.  Then  we  will  let  Europe  frown 
and  journalists  moralize,  while  we  two  gallop  forward  on 
the  road  that  leads  to  Vienna  and  Heaven?" 

"Or — "  the  Baroness  helpfully  suggested. 

"There  is  no  'or.'  Once  out  of  Noumaria,  we  leave 
all  things  behind  save  happiness." 

"Among  these  trifles,  your  Highness,  is  a  duchy." 

"Hein?"  said  the  Grand  Duke;  "what  is  it?  A  black 
dot  on  the  map,  a  pawn  in  the  game  of  politics.  I  give 
up  the  pawn  and  take — the  queen." 

"That  is  unwise,"  said  the  Baroness,  with  composure, 
"and,  besides,  you  are  hurting  my  hand.  Apropos  of  the 
queen — the  Grand  Duchess — " 

"Will  heartily  thank  God  for  her  deliverance.  She 
will  renounce  me  before  the  world,  and  in  secret  almost 
worship  me  for  my  consideration." 

"Yet  a  true  woman,"  said  the  Baroness,  oracularly, 
"will  follow  a  husband—" 

"Till  his  wife  makes  her  stop,"  said  the  little  Grand 
Duke,  his  tone  implying  that  he  knew  whereof  he  spoke. 

" — and  if  the  Grand  Duchess  loved  you— 

"O,  I  think  she  would  never  mention  it,"  said  the 
Grand  Duke,  revolving  in  his  mind  this  novel  idea.  "  She 
has  a  great  regard  for  appearances." 

"Nevertheless — " 

"She  will  be  Regent" — and  the  Grand  Duke  chuckled. 
"I  can  see  her  now — St.  Elizabeth,  with  a  dash  of  Boa- 

299 


(gallantry 

dicea.  Noumaria  will  be  a  pantheon  of  the  virtues,  and 
my  lamentable  offspring  will  be  reared  on  moral  aphorisms 
and  rational  food,  with  me  as  a  handy  example  of  every 
thing  they  should  avoid.  Deuce  take  it,  Amalia,"  he 
added,  "a  father  must  in  common  decency  furnish  an 
example  to  his  children!" 

"Pray,"  asked  the  Baroness,  "do  you  owe  it  to  your 
children,  then,  to  take  this  trip  to  Vienna — ' 

"Ma  foi!"  retorted  the  Grand  Duke,  "I  owe  that  to 
myself." 

" — and  thereby  break  the  Grand  Duchess's  heart?" 

"  Indeed,"  observed  his  Highness,  "  you  appear  strange 
ly  deep  in  the  confidence  of  my  wife." 

And  again  the  Baroness  descended  to  aphorism.  "All 
women  are  alike,  your  Highness." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "that  seven 
devils  were  cast  out  of  Magdalene." 

"Which  means—?" 

* '  I  have  never  heard  of  this  being  done  to  any  other 
woman.  Accordingly  I  deduce — ' 

"Beware,  your  Highness,  of  the  crudeness  of  cyn 
icism!" 

"I  am  old,"  complained  the  Grand  Duke,  "and  one 
reaches  years  of  indiscretion  early  in  life." 

"You  admit,  then,  discretion  is  desirable?" 

' '  I  admit  that, ' '  his  Highness  said,  with  firmness,  ' '  of 
you  alone." 

"Am  I,  in  truth,"  queried  the  Baroness,  "desirable?" 
And  she  looked  incredibly  so. 

"More  than  that,"  said  the  Grand  Duke — "you  are 
dangerous.  You  are  a  menace  to  the  peace  of  my  Court. 
The  young  men  make  sonnets  to  your  eyes,  and  the  ladies 
are  ready  to  tear  them  out.  You  corrupt  us,  one  and  all. 
There  is  de  Chateauroux  now — '* 

300 


iiual 

"I  assure  you,"  protested  the  Baroness,  "Monsieur  de 
Chateauroux  is  not  the  sort  of  person— 

"But  at  twenty-five,"  the  Grand  Duke  interrupted, 
"one  is  invariably  that  sort  of  person." 

"Phrases,  your  Highness." 

"  Phrases  or  not,  it  is  decided.  You  shall  make  no  more 
bad  poets." 

"You  will,"  said  the  Baroness,  "put  me  to  a  vast  ex 
pense  for  curl-papers." 

"You  shall  ensnare  no  more  admirers." 

"My  milliner  will  be  inconsolable." 

"In  short,  you  must  leave  Noumaria — 

"You  will  break  my  heart." 

" — but,  as  misery  loves  company,  I  will  go  with  you. 
For  we  should  never  forget,"  his  Highness  added,  with 
considerable  kindliness,  "always  to  temper  justice  with 
mercy.  So  I  have  ordered  a  carriage  to  be  ready  at 
dawn." 

The  Baroness  reflected;  the  plump  little  Grand  Duke 
smiled.  And  he  had  reason,  for  there  was  about  this 
slim  white  woman — whose  eyes  were  colossal  emeralds, 
and  in  show  equivalently  heatless,  if  not  in  effect — so 
much  of  the  baroque  that  in  meditation  she  appeared  some 
prentice  queen  of  Faery  dubious  as  to  her  incantations. 
Now,  though,  she  had  it — the  mislaid  abracadabra. 

"I  will  not  go,"  she  said. 

"Remember  Sapphira,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "and  by 
no  means  forget  the  portmanteau." 

"  I  have  not  the  least  intention  of  going—  "  the  Baroness 
reiterated,  firmly. 

"Nor  would  I  ever  suspect  you  of  harboring  such  a 
thought.  Still,  a  portmanteau,  in  case  of  an  emer 
gency — ' 

"—although—" 

301 


(gallantry 

"Why,  exactly." 

" — although  I  am  told  the  sunrise  is  very  beautiful 
from  the  Gardens  of  Breschau." 

"It  is  well  worth  seeing,"  agreed  the  Grand  Duke, 
"on  certain  days — particularly  on  Thursdays.  The  gar 
deners  make  a  specialty  of  them  on  Thursdays." 

"By  a  curious  chance,"  the  Baroness  murmured,  "this 
is  Wednesday." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "now  you  mention  it, 
I  believe  it  is." 

"And  I  shall  be  here  on  your  Highness 's  recommenda 
tion;  and  only,"  she  added,  "to  see  the  sunrise." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "  to  see  the  sunrise — 
but  with  a  portmanteau!" 

The  Baroness  was  silent. 

"With  a  portmanteau,"  entreated  the  Grand  Duke. 
"  I  am  a  connoisseur  of  portmanteaux.  Say  that  I  may 
see  yours,  Amalia." 

The  Baroness  was  silent. 

"Say  yes,  Amalia,"  the  Grand  Duke  whispered.  "I 
adore  portmanteaux." 

The  Baroness  bent  toward  him  and  said: 

"  I  am  sorry  to  inform  your  Highness  that  there  is 
some  one  at  the  door  of  the  summer-house." 


II 

Inasmuch  as  all  Noumaria  knew  that  its  little  Grand 
Duke,  once  closeted  with  the  lady  whom  he  delighted  to 
honor,  did  not  love  intrusions,  and  inasmuch  as  a  discreet 
Court  had  learned,  and  long  ago,  to  regard  the  summer- 
house  as  consecrate  to  his  Highness  and  the  Baroness  von 
Altenburg — for  these  reasons  the  Grand  Duke  was  in- 

302 


iiual 

clined  to  resent  disturbance  of  his  privacy  when  he  first 
peered  out  into  the  gardens. 

His  countenance  was  less  severe  when  he  turned  again 
toward  the  Baroness,  and  it  smacked  more  of  bewilder 
ment. 

"It  is  only  my  wife,"  he  said. 

"And  the  Comte  de  Chateauroux,"  said  the  Baroness. 

There  is  no  denying  that  their  voices  were  somewhat 
lowered.  The  chill  and  frail  beauty  of  Victoria  de  Soye- 
court  was  plainly  visible  from  where  they  sat;  to  every 
sense  a  woman  of  snow,  his  Highness  mentally  decided, 
for  her  gown  this  evening  was  white  and  the  black  hair 
powdered :  all  white  she  was,  a  cloud-tatter  in  the  moon 
light:  yet  with  the  Comte  de  Chateauroux  as  a  foil,  his 
uniform  of  the  Cuirassiers  a  big  stir  of  glitter  and  color, 
she  made  an  undeniably  handsome  picture;  and  it  was, 
quite  possibly,  the  Grand  Duke's  aesthetic  taste  which 
held  him  for  the  moment  motionless. 

"After  all—  "  he  began,  and  rose. 

"I  am  afraid  that  her  Highness — "  the  Baroness  like 
wise  commenced. 

"She  would  be  sure  to,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  and 
thereupon  he  sat  down. 

"I  do  not,  however,"  said  the  Baroness,  "approve  of 
eavesdropping. ' ' 

"  O,  if  you  put  it  that  way—  "  agreed  the  Grand  Duke, 
and  he  rose  once  more,  when  the  voice  of  de  Chateauroux 
stopped  him. 

"  Dieu  me  damne !"  cried  de  Chateauroux ; "  I  cannot  and 
I  will  not  give  you  up,  Victoria!" 

" — though  I  have  heard,"  said  his  Highness,  "that  the 
moonlight  is  bad  for  the  eyes."  Saying  this,  he  seated 
himself  composedly  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  summer- 
house. 


(gallantry 

"This  is  madness!"  the  Grand  Duchess  said — "sheer 
madness." 

"Madness,  if  you  will,"  de  Chateauroux  persisted,  "yet 
a  madness  too  powerful  to  be  withstood.  Listen,  Vic 
toria,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  palace,  whence 
music,  softened  by  the  distance,  stole  through  the  lighted 
windows,  "do  you  not  remember?  They  used  to  play 
that  air  at  Staarberg." 

The  Grand  Duchess  was  silent. 

He  continued:  "Those  were  contented  days,  were 
they  not,  when  we  were  boy  and  girl  together?  I  have 
danced  to  that  old-world  tune  so  many  times — with  you! 
And  to-night,  madame,  it  recalls,  in  consequence,  a  host 
of  unforgettable  things — as  the  scent  of  your  hair,  the 
soft  cheek  that  sometimes  brushed  mine,  the  white 
shoulders  which  I  longed  to  kiss  so  many,  many  times 
before  I  dared — " 

"Hein?"  muttered  the  Grand  Duke. 

"We  are  no  longer  boy  and  girl,"  the  Grand  Duchess 
said.  "All  that  lies  behind  us,  monsieur.  It  was  a 
dream — a  foolish  dream  which  we  must  forget." 

"Can  you  in  truth  forget?"  de  Chateauroux  whispered 
— "can  you  forget  it  all,  Victoria? — forget  that  night  at 
Gnestadt,  when  you  confessed  you  loved  me  ?  forget  that 
day  at  Staarberg,  when  we  were  lost  in  the  palace  gar 
dens?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  what  a  memory!"  murmured  the  Grand 
Duke.  "The  man  makes  love  by  the  almanac." 

"Nay,  dearest  woman  in  the  world,"  de  Chateauroux 
went  on,  "you  loved  me  once,  and  that  you  cannot  have 
quite  forgotten,  We  were  happy  then — very  incredibly 
happy — and  now — " 

"Life,"  said  the  Grand  Duchess,  "cannot  always  be 
happy." 

304 


iural 

"  Ah,  no,  my  dear!  But  what  a  life  is  this  of  mine— a 
life  of  dreary  days,  filled  with  sick,  vivid  dreams  of  our 
youth  that  is  hardly  past  as  yet!  And  so  many  dreams, 
woman  of  my  heart!  wherein  the  least  remembered  trifle 
brings  back  in  a  flash  some  corner  of  the  old  castle  and 
you  as  I  saw  you  there — laughing,  or  insolent,  or,  it  may 
be,  tender,  though  the  latter  comes  but  seldom.  Just  for 
a  moment  I  see  you,  and  my  blood  leaps  up  in  homage  to 
my  dear  lady.  Then — ah,  then  the  vision  disappears  as 
quickly  as  it  came,  and  I  hunger  more  than  ever  for  the 
sight  of  you." 

"This,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "is  insanity." 

"  But  I  love  better  the  dreams  of  the  night,"  de  Chateau- 
roux  went  on,  and  more  softly;  "for  they  are  not  made  all 
of  memories,  sweetheart;  or,  rather,  they  are  romances 
which  my  love  weaves  out  of  multitudinous  memories- 
wild,  fantastic  stories  of  just  you  and  me  that  always  end, 
if  I  be  left  to  dream  them  out  in  comfort,  very  happily. 
For  there  is  a  woman  in  these  dreams  who  loves  me,  whose 
heart  and  body  and  soul  are  mine,  and  mine  alone.  Ohe, 
it  is  a  wonderful  vision  while  it  lasts,  though  it  be  only  in 
dreams  that  I  am  master  of  my  heart's  desire,  and  the 
waking  be  very  bitter  .  .  .  !  Need  it  be  just  a  dream, 
Victoria?" 

"Not  but  that  he  does  it  rather  well,  you  know," 
whispered  the  Grand  Duke  to  the  Baroness  von  Alten- 
burg,  "  though  his  style  is  a  trifle  florid.  The  last  speech 
was  quite  in  my  earlier  manner." 

The  Grand  Duchess  did  not  stir  as  de  Chateauroux  bent 
over  her  jewelled  hand. 

"Come!  come  now!"  he  said.  "Let  us  not  lose  our  only 
chance  of  happiness.  '  Come  forth,  O  Galatea,  and  forget 
as  thou  comest,  even  as  I  already  have  forgot,  the  home 
ward  way !  Nay,  choose  with  me  to  go  a-shepherding — !' " 

305 


(gallantry 

"I  cannot,"  the  Grand  Duchess  whispered,  and  her 
voice  trembled  now.  "You  know  that  I  cannot,  dear." 

"You  will  go!"  said  de  Chateauroux. 

"My  husband—" 

"A  man  who  leaves  you  for  each  new  caprice,  who 
flaunts  his  mistresses  in  the  face  of  Europe." 

"My  children—" 

"Eh,  mon  Dieu!  are  they  or  aught  else  to  stand  in  my 
way,  think  you?  You  love  me!" 

" — it  would  be  criminal — " 

"You  love  me!" 

" — you  act  a  dishonorable  part,  de  Chateauroux — " 

"You  love  me!" 

"I  will  never  see  you  again,"  said  the  Grand  Duchess, 
firmly.  "Go!  I  loathe  you,  I  loathe  you,  monsieur, 
even  more  than  I  loathe  myself  for  having  stooped  to 
listen  to  you." 

"You  love  me!"  said  de  Chateauroux,  and  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

Then  it  was  granted  to  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg 
and  the  Grand  Duke  of  Noumaria  to  behold  a  wonderful 
sight,  for  the  Grand  Duchess  rested  her  head  upon  the 
shoulder  of  de  Chateauroux,  and  breathed:  "God  help 
me! — yes!" 

"Really,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "I  would  never  have 
thought  it  of  Victoria." 

"You  will  come,  then?"  the  Count  said. 

And  the  Grand  Duchess  answered,  quietly:  "It  shall 
be  as  you  will." 

More  lately,  while  the  Grand  Duke  and  the  Baroness 
craned  their  necks,  and  de  Chateauroux  bent,  very  slowly, 
over  her  upturned  lips,  the  Grand  Duchess  struggled  from 
him,  saying:  "Hark,  Philippe!  for  I  heard  some  one — 
some  thing  stirring — " 

306 


lural  Aufttettr? 

"It  was  the  wind,  dear  heart." 

"  Hasten ! — I  am  afraid ! — O,  it  is  madness  to  wait  here !" 
"  At  dawn,  then — in  the  gardens?" 
"Yes — ah,  yes,  yes!     But  come,  mon  ami."     And  they 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  palace. 


Ill 

The  Grand  Duke  looked  dispassionately  on  their  re 
treating  figures ;  inquiringly  on  the  Baroness ;  reprovingly 
on  the  moon,  as  though  he  rather  suspected  it  of  having 
treated  him  with  injustice. 

"Ma  foi,"  said  his  Highness,  at  length,  "I  have  never 
known  such  a  passion  for  sunrises.  Shortly  we  shall  have 
them  announced  as  'Patronized  by  the  Nobility." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Baroness,  "I  think  we  shall";  and 
added:  "  Her  own  cousin,  too!"  * 

"Victoria,"  observed  the  Grand  Duke,  "has  always 
had  the  highest  regard  for  her  family ;  but  in  this  she  is 
going  too  far— 

"Yes,"  said  the  Baroness;  "as  far  as  Vienna." 

"  — and  I  shall  tell  her  that  there  are  limits.  Pardieu," 
the  Grand  Duke  emphatically  repeated,  "that  there  are 
limits." 

"Whereupon,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  she  will  reply  that 
there  are — baronesses. ' ' 

"  I  shall  then  appeal  to  her  better  nature— 

"You  will  find  it,"  said  the  Baroness,  "strangely  hard 
of  hearing." 

*By  courtesy  rather  than  legally;  Mademoiselle  Bertin  was,  how 
ever,  undoubtedly  the  Elector  of  Badenburg's  sister,  though  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  blanket;  and  to  her  (second)  son  by  Louis  Quinze 
his  French  Majesty  accorded  the  title  of  Comte  de  Chateauroux. 

307 


(Sallantrij 

" — and  afterward  I  shall  have  de  Chateauroux  ar 
rested/' 

"On  what  grounds,  your  Highness?" 

"In  fact,"  admitted  the  Grand  Duke,  "we  do  not  want 
a  scandal." 

"It  is  no  longer,"  the  Baroness  considered,  "altogether 
a  question  of  what  we  want." 

"And,  morbleu!  there  will  be  a  horrible  scandal — " 

"The  public  gazettes  will  thrive  on  it." 

" — and  international  complications — " 

"The  army  has  very  little  to  do." 

" — and  later  a  divorce." 

"The  lawyers  will  call  you  blessed.  In  any  event," 
the  Baroness  conscientiously  added,  "your  lawyers  will. 
I  am  afraid  that  hers — " 

"Will  scarcely  be  so  courteous?"  the  Grand  Duke 
queried. 

"It  is  not  altogether  impossible,"  the  Baroness  admit 
ted,  "that  in  preparation  of  their  briefs  they  may  light 
upon  some  other  adjective." 

"And,  in  short,"  his  Highness  summed  it  up,  "there 
will  be  the  deuce  to  pay." 

"Why,  precisely,"  said  the  Baroness. 

The  plump  little  Grand  Duke  frowned,  and  lapsed  into 
a  most  unducal  sullenness. 

"Your  Highness,"  murmured  the  Baroness,  "I  cannot 
express  my  sympathy  for  you — " 

"Madame,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "no  more  can  I.     At 
least,  not  in  the  presence  of  a  lady." 
—but  I  have  a  plan — 

"I,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "have  an  infinity  of  plans; 
but  de  Chateauroux  has  both  a  carriage,  and  a  super 
fluity  of  Bourbon  blood;  whereas  in  addition,"  he  added,' 
reflectively,  "Victoria  has  the  deuce  of  a  temper." 

308 


iitral 

1 — and  my  plan,"  said  the  Baroness,  "is  a  good  one." 

"It  needs  to  be,"  said  the  Grand  Duke. 

But  thereupon  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg  unfolded  to 
his  Highness  her  scheme  for  preserving  peace  in  the  reign 
ing  family  of  Noumaria,  and  the  Grand  Duke  of  that 
principality  heard  and  marvelled. 

"Amalia,"  he  said,  when  she  had  ended,  "you  should 
be  prime-minister— 

"Ah,  your  Highness,"  said  the  lady,  "you  flatter  me." 

" — though,  indeed,"  the  Grand  Duke  reflected,  "what 
would  a  mere  prime-minister  do  with  lips  like  yours?" 

"You  agree,  then,  to  my  plan?"  the  Baroness  hastily 
demanded. 

"Why,  ma  foi,  yes!"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  and  he 
sighed.  "In  the  gardens  at  dawn." 

"At  dawn,"  said  the  Baroness,  "in  the  gardens." 


IV 

That  night  the  Grand  Duke  was  somewhat  impeded  in 
falling  asleep.  He  was  seriously  annoyed  by  the  upset- 
ment  of  his  escape  from  the  Noumarian  exile,  since  he 
felt  that  he  had  prodigally  fulfilled  his  obligations,  and 
in  consequence  deserved  a  holiday;  the  duchy  was  com 
mitted  past  retreat  to  the  French  alliance,  and  there  were 
his  two  children  to  reign  after  him,  and  be  the  puppets  of 
Jeanne  d'Etoiles  and  of  de  Bernis,1  just  as  he  had  been. 
Truly,  it  was  diverting,  after  a  candid  appraisal  of  his 

1  The  Grand  Duke  was,  however,  sincerely  fond  of  the  handsome 
priest  to  whom  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt  had  in  Venice,  in  1749,  relin 
quished  the  beautiful  nun  of  Muran,  Maria  Montepulci — which  lady 
de  Bernis  subsequently  turned  over  to  Giacomo  Casanova,  as  is  duly 
recorded  in  the  latter's  Memoires,  under  the  year  1753. 

309 


(gallantry 

own  merits,  to  reflect  that  a  dwarfish  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
had  succeeded  where  quite  impeccable  people  like  Bayard 
and  du  Guesclin  had  failed;  by  four  years  of  scandalous 
living  in  Noumaria  he  had  confirmed  the  duchy  to  the 
French  interest,  had  thereby  secured  the  wavering  friend 
ship  of  Austria,  and  had,  in  effect,  set  France  upon  her 
feet.  Yes,  the  deed  was  notable,  and  he  wanted  his 
reward. 

To  be  the  forsaken  husband,  to  play  Sgarnarelle  with 
all  Europe  as  an  audience,  was,  he  considered,  an  entirely 
inadequate  one.  That  was  out  of  the  question,  for,  deuce 
take  it!  somebody  had  to  be  Regent  while  the  brats  were 
growing  up.  And  Victoria,  as  he  had  said,  would  make 
an  admirable  Regent. 

He  was  rather  fond  of  his  wife  than  otherwise,  and 
sincerely  regretted  she  should  have  taken  a  fancy  to  that 
good-for-nothing  de  Chateauroux.  But  love  was  a  cruel 
and  unreasonable  lord.  .  .  .  There  was  Nelchen  Thorn,  for 
instance.  .  .  .  He  wondered  would  he  have  been  happy 
with  Nelchen?  her  hands  were  rather  coarse  about  the 
finger-tips,  as  he  remembered  them.  .  .  .  The  hands  of 
Amalia,  though,  were  perfection.  .  .  . 

Then  at  last  the  body  that  had  been  Louis  Quillan's 
fell  asleep. 


Discontentedly  the  Grand  Duke  appraised  the  scene, 
and  in  the  murky  twilight  which  heralded  the  day  he 
found  the  world  a  strangely  cheerless  place.  The  Gardens 
of  Breschau  were  deserted,  save  for  a  travelling  carriage 
and  its  fretted  horses,  who  stamped  and  snuffled  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  the  summer-house. 

"It  appears,"  he  said,   "that  I  am  the  first  on  the 


Sura!  A 

ground,  and  that  de   Chateauroux  is  a  dilatory  lover. 
Young  men  degenerate." 

Saying  this,  he  seated  himself  on  a  convenient  bench, 
where  de  Chateauroux  found  him  a  few  minutes  later, 
and  promptly  dropped  a  portmanteau  at  the  ducal  feet. 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  the  Grand  Duke  said,  "  this  is  an 
unforeseen  pleasure." 

"  Your  Highness!"  cried  de  Chateauroux,  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  Ludovicus,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "Dei  gratia  Archi 
Dux  Noumaricz,  Princeps  Gatinensis,  and  so  on."  And  de 
Chateauroux  caressed  his  chin. 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "that  you 
were  such  an  early  riser.  Or  perhaps,"  he  continued, 
"you  are  late  in  retiring.  Fy,  fy,  monsieur!  you  must 
be  more  careful!  You  must  not  create  a  scandal  in  our 
little  Court."  He  shook  his  finger  knowingly  at  Philippe 
de  Chateauroux. 

"  Your  Highness — "  said  the  latter,  and  stammered  into 
silence. 

"You  said  that  before,"  the  Grand  Duke  leisurely  ob 
served. 

"  An  affair  of  business — ' 

"Ah!  ah!  ah!"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  casting  his  eye 
first  toward  the  portmanteau  and  then  toward  the  car 
riage,  "can  it  be  that  you  are  leaving  Noumaria?  We 
shall  miss  you,  Comte." 

"  I  was  summoned  very  hastily,  or  I  would  have  paid 
my  respects  to  your  Highness— 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "your  departure  is  of 
a  deplorable  suddenness— 

"  It  is  urgent,  your  Highness— 

"—and  yet,"  pursued  the  Grand  Duke,  "travel  is 
beneficial  to  young  men." 

311 


11 1  shall  not  go  far,  your  Highness — 
"  Nay,  I  would  not  for  the  world  intrude  upon  your 
secrets,  Comte— 

—but  my  estates,  your  Highness — " 
" — for  young  men  will  be  young  men,  I  know." 
" — and  my  steward,  your  Highness,  is  imperative— 
"At  times,"   agreed   the   Grand   Duke,    "the  best  of 
stewards  is   somewhat   unreasonable.     I   trust,   though, 
that  she  is  handsome?" 

"Ah,  your  Highness — !"  cried  de  Chateauroux. 
"  And  you  have  my  blessing.     Go  in  peace." 
The  Grand  Duke  was  smiling  on  his  wife's  kinsman 
with  extreme  benevolence  when  the  Baroness  von  Al- 
tenburg  appeared  between  the  two,   in  travelling  cos 
tume  and  carrying  a  portmanteau. 


VI 

"Heyday!"  said  the  Grand  Duke;  "it  seems  that 
the  steward  of  our  good  Baroness,  also,  is  impera 
tive." 

"Your  Highness!"  cried  the  Baroness,  and  she,  too, 
dropped  her  burden. 

"Every  one,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "appears  to  ques 
tion  my  identity."  And  meantime  de  Chateauroux  turn 
ed  from  the  one  to  the  other  in  bewilderment. 

"This,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  after  a  pause,  "  is  painful. 
It  is  unworthy  of  you,  de  Chateauroux." 

"Your  Highness — !"  cried  the  Count. 

"Again?"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  pettishly. 

The  Baroness  applied  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  plaintively  said:  "You  do  not  understand,  your 
Highness — " 

312 


iurai  AttftUttr* 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "that  I  under 
stand  only  too  clearly." 

—and  I   confess  I  was  here  to  meet  Monsieur  de 
Chateauroux — 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  latter. 

"Precisely,"  observed  the  Grand  Duke,  "to  compare 
portmanteaux ;  and  you  had  selected  the  interior  of  yon 
der  carriage,  no  doubt,  as  an  appropriate  locality." 

"And  I  admit  to  your  Highness — " 

"His  Highness  already  knowing,"  the  Grand  Duke 
interpolated. 

—that  we  were  about  to  elope." 

"  I  can  assure  you—  "  de  Chateauroux  began. 

"Nay,  I  will  take  the  lady's  word  for  it,"  said  the 
Grand  Duke — "though  it  grieves  me." 

"We  knew  you  would  never  give  your  consent,"  mur 
mured  the  Baroness,  "and  without  your  consent  I  may 
not  marry— 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "I  would  never 
have  given  my  consent." 

"And  we  love  each  other." 

"Fiddle-de-dee!"  said  his  Highness. 

But  de  Chateauroux  passed  one  hand  over  his  brow. 
"This,"  he  said,  "is  some  horrible  mistake— 

"It  is,"  assented  the  Grand  Duke,  "a  mistake — and 
one  of  your  making." 

" — for  I  did  not  expect  the  Baroness— 

"To  confess  so  easily?"  his  Highness  continued,  with  a 
certain  sympathy.  "  It  was  beyond  doubt  unfortunate." 

"  Indeed,  your  Highness—  "  began  de  Chateauroux. 

"Nay,  Philippe,"  the  Baroness  entreated,  "confess  to 
his  Highness,  as  I  have  done." 

"Now,  Dieu  me  damne — !"  said  de  Chateauroux. 

"  I  must  beseech  you  to  be  silent,"  said  the  Grand  Duke ; 


(KttUatttrg 

"  you  have  already  brought  scandal  to  our  Court.  Do  not, 
I  pray  you,  add  profanity  to  the  catalogue  of  your  offences. 
Why,  I  protest,"  he  continued,  "even  the  Grand  Duchess 
has  heard  of  this  imbroglio." 

Indeed,  the  Grand  Duchess,  hurrying  from  a  pleached 
walkway,  was  already  within  a  few  feet  of  the  trio,  and 
had  noted  only  then  her  husband's  presence. 

"  I  would  not  be  surprised,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  rais 
ing  his  eyes  toward  heaven,  "if  by  this  time  it  were  all 
over  the  palace." 

VII 

Latterly,  as  his  wife  paused  in  astonishment,  the 
Grand  Duke  gravely  asked:  "You,  too,  have  heard  of 
this  sad  affair,  Victoria?  Ah,  I  perceive  you  have,  and 
come  in  haste  to  prevent  it — even  to  pursue  these  mis 
guided  beings,  if  necessary,  as  your  costume  attests.  You 
possess  a  good  heart,  Victoria." 

"  I  did  not  know — "  began  the  Grand  Duchess. 

"Until  the  last  moment,"  the  Grand  Duke  finished. 
"Eh,  I  comprehend.  But  perhaps,"  he  continued,  hope 
fully,  "  it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  bring  them  to  their  senses." 

And  turning  toward  the  Baroness  and  de  Chateauroux, 
he  said: 

"  I  may  not  hinder  your  departure  if  you  two  in  truth 
love  one  another,  since  to  control  that  passion  is  im 
measurably  beyond  the  prerogative  of  kings.  Yet  I  beg 
you  to  reflect  that  the  step  you  contemplate  is  irrevocable. 
Yes,  and  to  you,  madame,  whom  I  have  long  viewed  with 
a  paternal  affection — not  unwarranted,  I  trust,  by  either 
the  age  or  rank  for  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  pre 
serve  me — to  you  in  particular  I  would  address  my  plea. 
If  with  an  entire  heart  you  love  Monsieur  de  Chateauroux, 

3*4 


why,  then — why,  then,  I  concede  that  love  is  divine,  and 
yonder  carriage  at  your  disposal.  But  I  beg  you  to 
reflect—" 

"  Believe  me,"  said  the  Baroness,  "  we  are  heartily  grate 
ful  for  your  Highness's  magnanimity.  We  may,  I  de 
duce,  depart  with  your  permission?" 

"  — but  I  beg  you  to  reflect— 

"  We  have  reflected,"  said  the  Baroness,  and  handed  her 
portmanteau  to  the  unwilling  de  Chateauroux. 

"To  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  his  Highness  now  began, 
with  an  Olympian  frown,  "  I  have  naught  to  say.  Under 
the  cover  of  our  hospitality  you  have  endeavored  to  steal 
away  the  fairest  ornament  of  our  Court;  I  leave  you  to 
the  pangs  of  conscience,  if  indeed  you  possess  a  conscience. 
But  the  Baroness  is  unsophisticated ;  she  has  been  misled 
by  your  fallacious  arguments  and  specious  pretence  of 
affection.  She  has  evidently  been  misled,"  he  said  to  the 
Grand  Duchess,  kindly,  "as  any  woman  might  be." 

"  As  any  woman  might  be!"  his  wife  very  feebly  echoed. 

"And  I  shall  therefore,"  continued  the  Grand  Duke, 
"  do  all  within  my  power  to  dissuade  her  from  this  ruinous 
step.  I  shall  appeal  to  her  better  nature,  and  not,  I  trust, 
in  vain." 

He  hurried  to  the  carriage,  wherein  the  Baroness  was 
seated.  "  Amalia,"  he  whispered,  "you  are  an  admirable 
actress.  'O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful 
wonderful!  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after  that  out  of 
all  whooping!' " 

The  Baroness  smiled. 

"And  it  is  now  time,"  said  his  Highness,  "for  me  to 
appeal  to  your  better  nature.  I  shall  do  so  in  a  rather 
loud  voice,  for  I  have  prepared  a  most  virtuous  homily 
that  I  am  unwilling  the  Grand  Duchess  should  miss.  You 
will  be  overcome  at  its  conclusion  with  an  appropriate 


(Sallantrg 

remorse,  and  will  obligingly  burst  into  tears,  and  throw 
yourself  at  my  feet — pray  remember  that  the  left  is  the 
gouty  one — and  be  forgiven.  You  will  then  be  restored 
to  favor,  while  de  Chateauroux  drives  off  alone  and  in 
disgrace.  Your  plan  works  wonderfully." 

"It  is  true,"  the  Baroness  doubtfully  said,  "such  was 
the  plan." 

"And  a  magnificent  one,"  said  the  Grand  Duke. 

"But  I  have  altered  it,  your  Highness." 

"And  this  alteration,  Amalia — ?" 

"  Involves  a  trip  to  Vienna." 

"Not  yet,  Amalia.     We  must  wait." 

"O,  I  could  never  endure  delays,"  said  the  Baroness, 
"  and  accordingly  I  am  going  with  Monsieur  de  Chateau 


roux." 


The  Grand  Duke  supported  himself  by  grasping  the 
carriage  door. 

"Preposterous!"  he  cried. 

"But  you  have  given  your  consent,"  the  Baroness  pro 
tested,  "  and  in  the  presence  of  the  Grand  Duchess." 

"  Which,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "  was  part  of  our  plan." 

"Indeed,  your  Highness,"  said  the  Baroness,  "it  was 
a  most  important  part.  You  must  know,"  she  continued, 
with  some  diffidence,  "  that  I  have  the  misfortune  to  love 
Monsieur  de  Chateauroux." 

"Who  is  in  love  with  Victoria." 

"I  have  the  effrontery  to  believe,"  said  the  Baroness, 
and  modestly,  "that  he  is,  in  reality,  in  love  with  me." 

"Especially  after  hearing  him  last  night,"  the  Grand 
Duke  suggested. 

"That  scene,  your  Highness,  we  had  carefully  rehearsed 
— O,  seven  or  eight  times!  Personally,  I  considered  the 
quotation  from  Theocritus  a  little  too  pedantic,  but  Phil 
ippe  insisted  on  it,  you  conceive — " 

316 


QIlj?  lural  Auhi 

The  Grand  Duke  gazed  meditatively  upon  the  Baroness, 
who  had  the  grace  to  blush. 

"Then  it  was,"  he  asked,  "a  comedy  for  my  benefit?" 

"  You  would  never  have  consented—  "  she  began.  But 
the  Grand  Duke's  countenance,  which  was  slowly  altering 
to  a  dusky  green,  caused  her  to  pause. 

"  You  will  get  over  it  in  a  week,  Louis,"  she  murmured, 
"and  you  will  find  other — baronesses." 

"Probably,"  said  his  Highness,  grinning  in  a  ghastly 
fashion.  "Nevertheless,"  he  added,  "it  was  a  despicable 
trick  to  play  upon  the  Grand  Duchess." 

"  Yet  I  do  not  think  the  Grand  Duchess  will  complain," 
said  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg. 

And  it  was  as  though  a  light  broke  on  the  Grand  Duke. 
"  You  planned  all  this  beforehand?"  he  inquired. 

"Why,  precisely,  your  Highness." 

"  And  de  Chateauroux  helped  you?" 

"In  effect,  yes,  your  Highness." 

"And  the  Grand  Duchess  knew?" 

"The  Grand  Duchess  suggested  it,  your  Highness." 

He  considered  this  worthy  of  deliberation. 

"Louis,"  said  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg,  in  a  semi- 
whisper,  "your  wife  is  one  of  those  persons  who  cling  to 
respectability  like  a  tippler  to  his  bottle.  To  her  it  is 
absolutely  nothing  how  many  women  you  may  pursue— 
or  conquer — so  long  as  there  be  no  too  clamant  scandal. 
Ah,  I  pity  you,  my  Louis."  And  she  sighed  with  genuine 
compassion. 

He  took  possession  of  one  gloved  hand.  "  At  the  bot 
tom  of  your  heart,"  his  Highness  said,  irrelevantly,  "you 
like  me  far  better  than  you  do  Monsieur  de  Chateauroux.'' 

"I  unquestionably  do,"  she  answered.  "But  what  a 
woman  most  wants  is  to  be  loved.  If  I  touch  Philippe's 
hand  for,  say,  the  millionth  part  of  a  second  longer  than 

3*7 


necessity  compels,  he  treads  for  the  remainder  of  the  day 
above  meteors;  if  yours — why,  you  merely  admire  the 
fingers  that  touched  it.  No  doubt  you  are  a  connoisseur 
of  fingers  and  such-like  trifles;  but,  then,  a  woman  does 
not  wish  to  be  admired  by  a  connoisseur  so  much  as  she 
hungers  to  be  adored  by  a  maniac.  And  accordingly  I 
prefer  my  stupid  Philippe." 

1  'You  are  wise,"  the  Grand  Duke  estimated.  "I  re 
member  long  ago  ...  in  Poictesme  yonder.  ..." 

"I  loathe  her,"  the  Baroness  said,  with  emphasis. 
"  Nay,  I  am  ignorant  as  to  who  she  was — but  O  my 
Louis!  had  you  accorded  me  a  tithe  of  the  love  you 
squandered  on  that  abominable  dairymaid  I  would  have 
followed  you  not  only  to  Vienna — ' ' 

He  raised  his  hand.  "  There  are  respectable  people 
yonder,"  his  Highness  suggested;  "let  us  not  shock  them. 
No,  I  never  loved  you,  I  suppose;  I  merely  liked  your 
way  of  talking,  liked  your  big  green  eyes,  liked  your  lithe 
young  body.  .  .  .  H6,  and  I  like  you  still,  Amalia.  So  I 
shall  not  play  the  twopenny  despot.  God  be  with  you, 
my  dear." 

He  had  seen  the  tears  in  her  eyes  before  he  turned  his 
back  to  her.  "Monsieur  de  Chateauroux,"  he  called,  "  I 
find  the  lady  is  adamant.  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  journey." 
He  held  open  the  door  of  the  carriage  for  de  Chateauroux 
to  enter. 

"You  will  forgive  us,  your  Highness?"  asked  the 
latter. 

"You  will  forget?"  murmured  the  Baroness. 

"I  shall  do  both,"  said  the  Grand  Duke.  "Bon  voy 
age,  mes  enfants!" 

And  with  a  cracking  of  whips  the  carnage  drove  off. 

"Victoria,"  said  the  plump  little  Grand  Duke,  in 
admiration,  "you  are  a  remarkable  woman.  I  think 


itual  Aufcuttr? 

that  I  will  walk  for  a  while  in  the  gardens,  and  meditate 
upon  the  perfections  of  my  wife." 


VIII 

He  strolled  in  the  direction  of  the  woods.  As  he  reach 
ed  the  summit  of  a  slight  incline  he  turned  and  looked 
toward  the  road  that  leads  from  Breschau  to  Vienna. 
A  cloud  of  dust  showed  where  the  carriage  had  disap 
peared. 

"Ma  foil"  said  his  Highness;  "my  wife  has  very  fully 
proven  her  executive  ability.  Beyond  doubt,  there  is  no 
person  in  Europe  better  qualified  to  rule  Noumaria — as 
Regent." 


Alitmttt 

-4s  PUyed  at  Ingilby,  October  6,  1755 

"  Though  marriage  be  a  lottery,  in  which  there  are  a 
wondrous  many  blanks,  yet  there  is  one  inestimable  lot,  in 
which  the  only  heaven  on  earth  is  written.  Would  your 
kind  fate  but  guide  your  hand  to  that,  though  I  were  wrapt 
in  all  that  luxury  itself  could  clothe  me  with,  I  still  should 
envy  you." 


Bramattfi 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

Louis  DE  SOYECOURT,  formerly  GRAND  DUKE  OF  NOUMARIA, 
and  now  a  tuner  of  pianofortes. 

DUG    DE    PUYSANGE. 

D  AMI  ENS,  servant  to  Ormskirk. 

In  Dumb  Show  are  presented  LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE, 
CAPTAIN  FRANCIS  AUDAINE,  MR.  GEORGE  ERWYN, 
DUCHESS  OF  ORMSKIRK,  DUCHESSE  DE  PUYSANGE,  LADY 
MARIAN  DEGGE,  MRS.  AUDAINE,  and  MRS.  ERWYN. 

SCENE 

The  library,  and  afterward  the  dining-room,  of  Ormskirk's 
home  at  Ingilby,  in  Westmoreland. 


Alumni 

PROEM :— Wherein  a  Prince  Serves  His  People 

(HE  Grand  Duke  did  not  return  to  break 
fast  nor  to  dinner,  nor,  in  point  of  fact, 
to  Noumaria.  For  the  second  occasion 
Louis  de  Soyecourt  had  vanished  at  the 
spiriting  of  boredom,  and  it  is  humiliating 
to  record  that  his  evasion  was  quite  with 
out  a  train  of  turmoil. 

The  Grand  Duchess,  having  shrugged,  meditated,  and 
conscientiously  dragged  the  ponds  about  the  palace,  and 
held  an  interview  with  the  Chief  of  Police,  and  more  lately 
had  herself  declared  Regent  of  Noumaria. 

She  proved  a  capable  woman,  so  that  no  one  evinced 
the  least  desire  to  hasten  either  the  maturity  of  her  son 
or  the  reappearance  of  his  father. 


Meantime  there  had  come  to  Ingilby,  the  Duke  of 
Ormskirk's  place  in  Westmoreland,  a  tiny  blue-eyed  vag 
abond  who  requested  audience  with  his  Grace,  and  pres 
ently  got  it,  for  the  Duke,  since  his  retirement  from  pub 
lic  affairs,1  had  evinced  a  certain  friendliness  toward  the 

1  He  returned  to  office  during  the  following  year,  as  is  well  known, 
immediately  before  the  attempted  assassination  of  the  French  Kingf 
in  the  January  of  1757. 

323 


public  and  was  approachable  by  almost  any  member 
of  it. 

The  man  sauntered  toward  him,  smiling.  "  I  entreat 
your  pardon,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  he  began,  "that  I  have 
not  visited  you  sooner.  But  in  unsettled  times,  you 
comprehend,  the  master  of  a  beleaguered  fortress  is  kept 
busy.  This  poor  fortress  of  my  body  has  been  o'  late 
most  resolutely  besieged  by  poverty  and  hunger,  what 
while  I  have  been  tramping  about  Europe  in  search  of 
Gaston.  Now,  they  tell  me,  he  is  here." 

The  impudent  travesty  of  their  five-year-old  interview 
at  Bellegarde  so  tickled  Ormskirk's  fancy  that  he  laughed 
heartily  after  his  first  astonishment.  "Damiens,"  said 
he,  to  the  attendant  lackey,  "go  fetch  me  a  Protestant 
minister  from  Manneville,  and  have  a  gallows  erected  in 
one  of  the  drawing-rooms.  I  intend  to  pay  off  an  old 
score."  Meantime  he  was  shaking  the  little  vagabond's 
hand,  chuckling  and  a-beam  with  hospitality. 

"Your  Grace — !"  said  Damiens,  bewildered. 

"Well,  go,  in  any  event,"  said  Ormskirk.  " O,  go  any 
where,  man! — to  the  devil,  for  instance." 

Yet  his  eyes  followed  the  retreating  lackey.  "As  I 
suspect  in  the  end  you  will,"  Ormskirk  said,  inconse- 
quently.  "  Still,  you  are  a  very  serviceable  fellow,  my 
good  Damiens.  I  may  have  need  of  you  before  long." 

And  with  a  shrug  he  now  began:  "Your  Highness — " 

"Praise  God,  no!"  observed  the  other,  fervently. 

And  Ormskirk  nodded  his  comprehension.  "Monsieur 
de  Soyecourt,  then.  Of  course,  we  heard  of  your  disap 
pearance.  I  have  been  expecting  something  of  the  sort 
for  years.  And,  frankly,  politics  are  a  nuisance,  as  both 
Gaston  and  myself  will  willingly  attest — especially,"  he 
added,  with  a  grimace,  "since  war  'twixt  France  and 
England  became  inevitable  through  the  late  happenings 

324 


j0  Alumnt 

in  India  and  Nova  Scotia,  and  both  our  wives  flatly  de 
clined  to  let  either  of  us  take  part  therein — for  fear  we 
might  catch  our  death  of  cold  by  sleeping  in  those 
draughty  tents.  Faith,  you  have  descended,  sir,  like  an 
agreeable  meteor,  upon  two  of  the  most  scandalously 
henpecked  husbands  in  all  the  universe.  In  fact,  you 
will  not  find  a  gentleman  at  Ingilby — save  Mr.  Erwyn, 
perhaps — but  is  an  abject  slave  to  his  wife,  and  in  con 
sequence  most  abjectly  content." 

"  You  have  guests,  then  ?"  said  de  Soyecourt.  "  Ma  foi, 
it  is  unfortunate.  I  but  desired  to  confer  with  Gaston 
concerning  the  disposal  of  the  Beaujolais  and  other  prop 
erties,  since  I  find  that  the  sensation  of  hunger,  while  un 
doubtedly  novel,  is,  when  too  long  continued,  apt  to  pall 
on  one.  I  would  not  willingly  intrude,  however — 

"Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  you  are  one  of  the 
wealthiest  men  living,  and  yet,  so  long  as  you  preserve 
your  incognito,  cannot  touch  a  penny  of  your  fortune! 
The  situation  is  droll.  We  must  arrange  it.  Meanwhile 
you  are  my  guest,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  at  Ingilby 
you  will  be  to  all  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  no  more  and  no 
less.  Now  I  think  a  suit  of  Humphrey's  would  fit  you — 

"  But  I  could  not  consider —  '  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt 
protested. 

"I  must  venture  to  remind  you,"  the  Duke  retorted, 
"that  dinner  is  almost  ready,  and  that  Claire  is  the  sort 
of  woman  who  would  more  readily  overlook  either  fratri 
cide  or  arson  than  cold  soup." 

"It  is  odd,"  little  de  Soyecourt  said,  with  complete 
irrelevance,  "that  in  the  end  I  should  get  aid  of  you  and 
of  Gaston.  And  it  is  still  more  odd  you  should  forgive 
my  treacheries  so  lightly—" 

Ormskirk  considered,  a  new  gravity  in  his  plump  facet 
"  Faith,  we  bear  no  malice,  Gaston  and  I  —  largely,  I 

325 


(Sallantrg 

suppose,  because  contentment  is  a  great  encourager  of  all 
the  virtues.  Then,  too,  we  remember  that  to  each  of  us, 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  and  through  no  merit  of  his  own, 
there  was  given  the  one  thing  worth  while  in  life.  We  did 
not  merit  it;  few  of  us  merit  anything,  for  few  of  us  are 
at  bottom  either  very  good  or  very  bad.  Nay,  my  friend, 
for  the  most  part  we  are  blessed  or  damned  as  Fate  elects, 
and  hence  her  favorites  may  not  in  reason  condemn  her 
victims.  For  myself,  I  observe  the  king  upon  his  throne 
and  the  thief  upon  his  coffin,  in  passage  for  the  gallows; 
and  I  pilfer  my  phrase  and  I  apply  it  to  either  spectacle : 
There,  but  for  the  will  of  God,  sits  John  Bulmer.  I  may  not 
understand,  I  may  not  question ;  I  can  but  accept.  Now, 
then,  let  us  get  in  to  dinner,"  he  ended,  in  quite  another 
tone. 

De  Soyecourt  yielded. 

II 

At  dinner  Louis  de  Soyecourt  made  divers  observa 
tions. 

First  Gaston  had  embraced  him.  "  And  the  de  Gatinais 
estates?  —  but  beyond  question,  my  dear  Louis!  Next 
week  we  return  to  France,  and  the  affair  is  easily  arranged. 
You  may  abdicate  in  due  form,  you  need  no  longer  skulk 
about  Europe  disguised  as  a  beggarly  piano-tuner;  it  is 
all  one  to  France,  you  conceive,  whether  you  or  your  son 
reign  in  Noumaria.  You  should  have  come  to  me  sooner. 
As  for  your  having  been  in  love  with  my  wife,  I  could  not 
well  quarrel  with  that,  since  the  action  would  seriously 
reflect  upon  my  own  taste,  who  am  still  most  hideously 
in  love  with  her." 

Helene  had  stoutened.  Helene! — heh,  the  dreams  and 
the  insanities  of  a  comparative  y outhf ulness !  He  recalled 

326 


fi  Alumni 

certain  ancient  occurrences,  and  had  enough  virtue  to 
blush,  and  noted  that  the  gold  hair  was  silvering  now,  as 
though  Time  had  tangled  cobwebs  through  it,  and  that 
Gaston  was  profoundly  unconscious  of  the  fact.  In  Gas- 
ton's  eyes  she  was  at  the  most  seventeen.  And  de  Soye- 
court's  one  comfort  was  that  she  shook  her  head  at 
Gaston 's  third  glass,  and  that  de  Puysange  did  not  vent 
ure  on  a  fourth. 

As  for  the  Duchess  of  Ormskirk,  he  had  known  from 
the  beginning — in  comparative  youthfulness — that  Claire 
would  placidly  order  her  portion  of  the  world  as  she  con 
sidered  expedient,  and  that  Ormskirk  would  travesty  her, 
and  somewhat  bewilder  her,  and  that  in  the  ultimate 
Ormskirk  would  obey  her  to  the  letter. 

Captain  Audaine  he  considered  at  the  start  diverting, 
and  in  the  end  a  pompous  bore.  Yet  they  assured  him 
that  the  man  was  getting  on  prodigiously  in  the  House  of 
Commons i — as,  ma  foi !  he  would  most  naturally  do,  since 
his  metier  was  simply  to  shout  well-rounded  common 
places, — and  the  circumstance  that  he  shouted  would 
always  attract  attention,  while  the  fact  that  he  shouted 
platitudes  would  invariably  prevent  his  giving  offence. 
Lord  Humphrey  Degge  he  found  a  ruddy  and  comely 
person,  but  inconsiderable,  whereas  he  avidly  took  note 
of  Mr.  Erwyn's  waistcoat.  Why,  this  man  was  a  genius! 
Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  at  first  glance  decided.  Staid, 
demure  even,  yet  with  a  quiet  prodigality  of  color  and 
ornament,  an  inevitableness  of  cut—  O,  beyond  doubt, 
this  man  was  a  genius! 

As  for  their  wives,  he  appraised  them  as  handsome 
women,  one  and  all,  but  quite  unattractive,  since  they 

1  His  personal  quarrel  with  the  Chevalier  St.  George  and  its  remark 
able  upshot,  at  Antwerp,  as  well  as  his  subsequent  renunciation  of 
Jacobitism,  are  best  treated  of  in  Garendon's  own  memoirs. 

327 


(SaUantrg 

evinced  not  the  least  degree  of  excessive  interest  in 
Monsieur  de  Soyecourt.  Here  was  no  sniff  of  future 
conquest,  not  one  side-long  glance,  but  merely  three  wives 
unblushingly  addicted  to  their  owrn  husbands.  Eh  bien ! 
they  had  many  droll  customs,  these  English! 

Yet  in  the  little  man  there  woke  a  vague  suspicion,  as 
he  sat  among  these  contented  folk,  that  after  all  they  had 
perhaps  attained  to  something  very  precious  of  which  his 
own  life  had  been  void,  to  a  something  of  which  he  could 
not  form  a  conception  even.  Love,  of  course,  he  under 
stood,  and  with  thoroughness;  no  man  alive  had  loved 
more  ardently  and  more  variously  than  Louis  de  Soye 
court.  But  what  the  devil!  love  was  a  temporary  delu 
sion,  an  ingenious  device  of  Nature's  to  bring  about 
perpetuation  of  the  species,  and  this  object  once  secured, 
love,  of  course,  gave  way  to  a  mutual  tolerance,  or  to 
dislike,  or,  more  preferably,  as  he  considered,  to  a  cour 
teous  oblivion  of  the  past. 

And  yet  when  this  Audaine,  to  cite  one  instance  only, 
had  vented  some  particularly  egregious  speech  that  tiny 
and  exquisite  wife  of  his  would  merely  smile,  in  a  fond, 
half -musing  way.  She  had  twice  her  husband's  wit,  and 
was  cognizant  of  the  fact,  beyond  doubt ;  and  to  any  list 
of  his  faults  and  weaknesses  you  could  have  compiled  she 
indubitably  might  have  added  a  dozen  items,  familiar  to 
herself  alone:  and  with  all  this,  it  was  clamant  that  she 
preferred  him  to  any  possible  compendium  of  the  manly 
virtues.  Why,  in  comparison,  she  would  have  pished  at 
a  seraph! — after  five  years  of  his  twaddle,  mark  you. 

Louis  de  Soyecourt  understood,  with  an  all-possessing, 
awful  clearness,  that  not  one  of  these  folk  was  blind  to  his 
or  her  yoke-fellow's  frailty,  but  that,  beside  this  some 
thing  very  precious  to  which  they  had  attained,  and  he 
had  never  attained,  a  man's  foible,  or,  say,  a  woman's 

328 


0  Alumni 

defect,  dwindled  into  insignificance.  Here,  then,  were 
people  who,  after  five  years'  consortment — consciously 
defiant  of  time's  corrosion,  of  the  guttering-out  of  desire, 
of  the  gross  and  daily  disillusions  of  a  life  in  common, 
and  even  of  the  daily  fret  of  all  trivialities  shared  and 
diversely  viewed — who  could  yet  smile  and  say:  "No, 
my  companion  is  not  quite  the  perfect  being  I  had  im 
agined.  What  does  it  matter?  I  am  content.  I  would 
have  nothing  changed." 

Louis  Quillan  would  have  understood.  And  had  Nel- 
chen  Thorn  seen  her  twentieth  year,  had  the  girdle  of 
circumstance  been  a  thought  less  obdurate,  ineffectual 
little  Louis  de  Soyecourt  would  never  have  shrugged, 
perhaps,  and  have  muttered,  entirely  malapropos  of  Mr. 
Erwyn's  scrap  o'  scandal: 

"Eh  bien!  they  have  many  droll  customs,  these 
English!" 

CURTAIN 


SPOKEN   BY  ORMSKIRK,  WHO 
ENTERS   IN  A  FRET 

A  thankless  task!  to  come  to  you  and  mar 
Your  dwindling  appetite  for  caviar, 
And  so  I  told  him! 

[He  calls  within. 
Sir,  the  critics  sneer, 

And  swear  the  thing  is  "crude  and  insincere"! 
"Too  trivial"!   or  for  an  instant  pause 
And  doubly  damn  with  negligent  applause! 
Impute,  in  fine,  the  prowess  o'  the  Vicar 
Less  to  repentance  than  to  too  much  liquor! 
Find  Louis  weak!  de  Gatinais  insane! 
Gaston  too  flippant,  and  George  Erwyn  vain, 
And  Degge  no  more  heroic  than  Audaine! 
Nay,  sir,  no  Epilogue  avails  to  save — 
You're  damned,  and  Buhner's  hooted  as  a  knave. 

[He  retires  behind  the  curtain  and  is  thrust  out 
again.     He  resolves  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

The  author's  obdurate,  and  bids  me  say 
That — since  the  doings  of  our  Georgian  day 
Smack  less  of  Hippocrene  than  of  Bohea — 
His  tiny  pictures  of  that  tiny  time 
Aim  little  at  the  lofty  and  sublime, 
Nor  paint  a  peccadillo  as  a  crime — 
Since  though  illegally  all  midges  mate, 
And  flies  purloin,  and  gnats  assassinate, 
They  are  not  haled  before  a  magistrate. 
333 


(gallantry 

Or  so  he  says.     He  merely  strove  to  find 
And  fix  a  faithful  likeness  of  mankind 
About  its  daily  business — and  secure 
Far  less  a  portrait  than  a  miniature — 
And  for  it  all  no  moral  can  procure. 

Let  Bulmer,  then,  defend  his  old-world  crew, 
And  beg  indulgence — nay,  applause — of  you. 

Grant  that  we  tippled  and  were  indiscreet, 
And  that  our  idols  had  but  earthen  feet, 
And  that  we  made  of  life  a  masquerade, 
And  swore  a  deal  more  loudly  than  we  prayed; 
Grant  none  of  us  the  man  his  Maker  meant — • 
Our  deeds,  the  parodies  of  our  intent, 
In  neither  good  nor  ill  pre-eminent ; 
Grant  none  of  us  a  Nero — none  a  martyr — 
All  merely  so  so. 

And  de  te  narratur. 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

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